


The Little Book of Daffodils

by clefairytea



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Literary References, M/M, Plagiarism, mediocre poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-03 16:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clefairytea/pseuds/clefairytea
Summary: “Now, now,” Snufkin told himself. “It could be a coincidence…”A coincidence, that a poem with the exact same title and opening lines as his own work had made its way to publication? Unlikely.Snufkin didn’t have his original copy to compare the stolen poem against. He only enjoyed writing poetry. Afterwards, he never really wanted to revisit it or share it. He just left the old notebook behind somewhere and procured a new one, ready to start again.There was no denying the familiarity, though. After hearing it in Moominpappa’s voice, he couldn’t remember when or where he penned it, but the work was certainly his.That didn’t solve the issue of how this De Hemulton fellow had come to claim it as his own, or why.--A very familiar poetry collection has become popular in Moominvalley.





	1. Act One: Our hero encounters an inciting incident.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so I have no self-control! Anyway, this is like roughly 23k, will be posting the next two parts over the next week or so. Follows Moominvalley canon, although probably set a few years afterwards. I'm imagining they're like in the 18 - 20 age range here, give or take.
> 
> Trigger warnings for the whole fic: implied homophobia (I kept it as light as I could and out of the mouths of anyone we like, but there you go), physical intimidation & abusive/manipulative behaviour (more on the 'red flags' side than anything outright, and again, not perpetuated by any canon characters). Oh, there's also alcohol mentions and use, although nobody gets drunk.
> 
> This stuff only comes in later and isn't in this part, but I thought I'd warn early. Mostly it's a good time with lots of goofs.

One year, Snufkin left Moominvalley later than ever in autumn, and returned later than ever after the new year. The latter was because he was thinking so much about his reasons for the former that, as he walked up an unfamiliar mountain path, he didn’t see the snowstorm before it hit him. The snowstorm had been so bad that he had been trapped in a cave on the mountain side for days, and then the journey back to Moominvalley was slower and more treacherous than ever.

In its own way, it had been enjoyable – a real survival situation! Real solitude, real quiet, and a landscape like no other! He had done some fantastic walks, and almost filled his latest journal. He had been blocked in his poetry writing lately, but such a drastic change of pace had given him ample time to reflect and put his thoughts into words.

On the other hand, being trapped for so long had left him late to Moominvalley. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but think about Moomintroll worrying for his arrival. Just sitting on that bridge, waiting and watching and growing more restless, perhaps starting to look for someone more reliable to spend the warmer months with. It gave his spring tune a lonely sort of sound he couldn’t shake out, no matter how hard he tried.

Snufkin knew it was pointless to try and force a spring tune into a different shape, but the loneliness of it felt self-indulgent. As a snufkin, he was meant to be a jolly creature, after all.

All he could hope was that nobody looked too closely at it. He rather hated people looking too closely at the feelings behind his tunes – it was much too personal.

Not that it were much of a spring tune any more. It was quarter past summer already, after all.

So, trying not to seem as though he were at all nervous to be back so late, Snufkin walked towards Moominhouse, putting as much jolliness into his spring tune he could manage. The summer heat already blanketed Moominvalley. Snufkins’ coat clung wetly to his back, and the cicadas were singing from the trees.

To his great surprise, the normally peaceful valley was a hub-bub of activity upon his return. Moominpappa was out in his garden, erecting an enormous wooden stage, and Mamma and Sniff w were clambering around, stringing fairy lights and colourful bunting around poles erected in the earth (at the least, Mamma was. Sniff was mostly just getting tangled in the lights and shouting for help).

He stopped playing as they all looked at him. Moomintroll was nowhere in sight. Suddenly, Snufkin felt rather crowded, and cringed in on himself, embarrassed.

“Hullo”, he said quietly.

“Ah, hello dear!” Mamma said brightly. “We were just –“

“_Where have you **been!?**_”

Snufkin dropped his mouth-organ, almost jumping clean out of his fur. He whirled around to see Snorkmaiden charging towards him, expression thunderous. Oh dear. Well, he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve such a welcome, being so late, but it was unpleasant all the time. He shrank into his coat as she approached, much ashamed of himself.

“Hello Snorkmaiden. Did you have a good winter?”

She looked as though she rather wanted to slap him.

“Well, I did, but spring’s been rotten, thanks to you!” she said, jabbing him in the chest with a paw.

“I know, I’m terribly late, I got into rather a spot of trouble, and –“

“Well I’m _very glad you’re okay!”_ she said, so furious he knew that she’d been terribly worried. He pulled his hat over his face. He wasn’t about to apologise for being “late” (it was hardly as though he was _obliged_ to turn up on the first day of spring!), but it was terrible to make anyone worry so much.

Snorkmaiden looked at him for a moment and sighed.

“Well, it’s done now, you ass,” she said, shaking her head. “But poor Moomintroll’s been a state. You’re going up to that house and saying hello to him _right now._”

“I was going to anyway…”

“And spoil him as much as he wants, you hear me?” she snarled.

Snufkin hardly had any idea what on earth he could do to ‘spoil’ Moomintroll. It wasn’t as though he brought back presents, and he wasn’t a particularly good cook. The most he could do was tell him silly stories or playing him little tunes, and that could barely be counted as anything.

He was about to say that, but Snorkmaiden looked dangerous. It was probably best to just go along with whatever she said. He nodded. She sighed at him.

“Honestly,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “I am _so_ glad we’ve all had something to distract ourselves with this spring…”

She stalked off, going to help Moominpappa with something. Snufkin didn’t dare ask what, and just headed straight into Moominhouse. It was very quiet inside.

“So you finally decided to show up,” said a familiar voice from the chandelier. Little My stuck her face between the prongs of chandelier, glowering down at him.

“Well, hello to you too, Little Mymble,” he said. “Yes, I got a little side-tracked, I’m afraid…”

“I’ll say. Do you know what a spring’s like here without you?” she said, lying on her back and making the chandelier swing. “I mean, I’ve been pleased to not have to look at your ugly mug. But a certain someone has been a real drama queen about it.”

“Well, I’m back now,” he said, starting to get irritated. Perhaps he should just leave, if this was how he was going to be treated. It was all beginning to seem a little absurd. Surely Moomintroll hadn’t been so lonely. He didn’t lack for other friends, after all, and Snufkin wasn’t even the most exciting of them.

Little My tutted at him and hopped down from the chandelier, landing on all-fours on the kitchen table, before leaping down to the floor in a cat-like pounce.

“Anyway, it should be an interesting summer, that’s for sure.”

“Hm. Now what do you mean by that?”

Little My stared at him, unblinking, and then gave a little chuckle and darted out of the door, something purple clasped in her paws.

“Well, that can’t be good news,” he muttered to himself, and then looked back up the stairs. “One thing at a time.”

He had Moomintroll to see first.

“Moomintroll?” he called up the stairs, admittedly surprised Moomintroll hadn’t heard him play on the way. Usually Moomintroll had rather good hearing. Perhaps he was sick? Oh dear, that would explain why he was cooped up inside on such a sunny day.

Or perhaps, he was feeling strange about last autumn. Moomintroll had been behaving so oddly before Snufkin left for winter. He had alternated wildly between avoiding Snufkin as though he’d caught some kind of deadly plague, and practically hanging off him.

The latter was perhaps not so unusual, but it was also accompanied by this sudden uptick in how much Moomintroll touched him. Perhaps Snufkin’s imagination and wishful thinking had been getting away from him, but last autumn it seemed as though Moomintroll was constantly resting a paw on his shoulder, or picking autumn leaves out of his hair, or smoothing down wrinkles in his coat.

Perhaps, Snufkin thought, Moomintroll had decided to just avoid Snufkin permanently. The thought was rather sobering.

As he got closer, Snufkin heard music coming from Moomintroll’s room. Snufkin didn’t recognise the music –the vocals were a bit warbling and mournful for Snufkin’s tastes. At the very least that may explain how Moomintroll missed his spring tune.

He knocked on the door. It budged open under his fist and he peeked in – Moomintroll was lying on his stomach in bed, bundled under the covers, his snout buried in a little purple book. Moominpappa’s gramophone was in front of the door, making it rather difficult to get in and out. A fan was also on in the corner, blowing cool air about the room. There was a canvas on the easel, with a rough sketch and the starting flats of something Snufkin couldn’t make out, and a big stack of completed canvases in the corner.

It seemed Moomintroll had been busy over the past season.

He knocked on the door again.

“Mamma, seriously, I _really _don’t want to –“ Moomintroll started, and then sprang up.

“Snufkin!” he shouted, bolting upright. He fell off the bed with a thump, legs tangled in the blankets. “Ow, hold on, hold on, I’m –“

Snufkin laughed despite himself, squeezing through the small gap in the doorframe. Moomintroll had mostly managed to sort himself out, standing up with a corner of the blanket over his snout.

“You’re here! You’re okay! I mean, are you okay, I -” he chattered, and then stumbled over the blanket and hit the floor again. “Ow…”

“Perhaps I should be the one asking if you’re okay,” Snufkin said, offering a paw to help him to his feet. Moomintroll took it, letting Snufkin pull him to his feet.

The fur on his paw felt thicker and softer than usual. Had he been awake in winter again? Now Snufkin looked, his fur looked thick at the neck, growing into the ruff he developed if he was out and about during the colder months.

“This looks rather warm, for the weather,” he said, reaching out to bury his fingers in the soft fur. There were layers to it, now, and he had to sink his fingers in deep before he felt the firm muscles of Moomintroll’s neck.

“Uh, it is, a little,” Moomintroll replied, going pink at the ears. “Things keep getting stuck in it too…”

All too late, Snufkin realised what he was doing and snatched his paw back.

“What is this music?” Snufkin asked, trying to change the topic. Moomintroll only went redder at that and gave the gramophone a sharp kick, silencing it.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said, clearing his throat, and then leaned against the bookcase, idly observing his own paw. “So how was your winter?”

Snufkin opted for the simplest version of the truth.

“Long.”

Moomintroll nodded, humming and examining the back of his paw. It was a moment before he spoke again, glancing at Snufkin out of the corner of his eye.

“…And your spring?” he asked. Snufkin winced. Oh dear. He supposed he deserved that, really.

“Much too long. I hadn’t intended to come back so late, but…”

But what? He had been an idiot and underestimated the mountains, overestimated himself, failed to read the signs of snowstorm properly? What an embarrassing thing to have to tell Moomintroll, who always thought so highly of him.

“Well, the winds weren’t blowing right for it,” he finished. Moomintroll, always very kind, simply nodded as though Snufkin had said something enormously insightful.

“Yeah, of course, winds. Duh,” he said, and then grabbed at Snufkins’ paws. “I’m pleased to see you, though. You’ll have to tell me everything that’s happened!”

“Well, it seems I’ve missed things here too,” Snufkin said, glancing out of the window. Moominpappa had taken to his little stage, addressing the growing crowd. “What’s all the fuss?”

“Oh. That. Pappa’s trying to get a literary scene started in Moominvalley,” he said, tugging him away from the window. “There’s been a poetry collection published recently, and it’s gotten popular here.”

“Really?” Snufkin said, intrigued. It wasn’t often poetry caused any particular stir – it was a sadly underappreciated artform. “Is that what you were reading?”

“Ah, yes, it’s very good! I mean, well, I think so, but –uh. It’s probably a little sentimental for your tastes,” he said. “You know more about poetry than me, Snuf. You’ll be able to tell if it actually any good or not.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t give me so much credit,” Snufkin replied. “I’ve just read a fair bit on my travels, that’s all. One learns a lot, reading many different things by many different people.”

“See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Moomintroll said with a laugh. “You really are clever.”

It had been long enough that Snufkin had rather forgotten how intensely Moomintroll could look at people. Snufkin rarely knew what to do with so much doting attention. It wasn’t unpleasant – far from it – but it always felt too big for him. He didn’t really own anything that was too big to be carried in his pocket. When offered something like that, he didn’t really know what to do with it.

“If you say so,” Snufkin said awkwardly, belatedly taking his paw back. “Shall we go see what Moominpappa is up to?”

Moomintroll rolled his eyes as they descended the stairs and out the front door.

“I’d rather go down the river and hear about your winter adventures, honestly. He’s –“

“Welcome, welcome, one and all!” Moominpappa bellowed, interrupting whatever Moomintroll was about to say. “Welcome to the weekly meeting of the Moominvalley Literary Society. I am your master of ceremonies, the exceptionally scholarly Moominpappa.”

“Where did he get the mortarboard from?” Snufkin whispered to Moomintroll, making him snigger. He then glanced up at his father and frowned.

“C’mon, Snuf, let’s go.”

“No, this is terribly fascinating,” he said, curiosity overriding his normal distaste for hub-bubs, ignoring Moomintroll’s insistent tugs on his paw. It was a funny crowd –fillyjonks and hemulens, many with beards and most smoking cigars or pipes. They all wielded expensive pens and expensive notebooks, but none seemed to write as much as a word in any of them.

“Now, for this first meeting we’re going to discuss the de-_byuu _collection of the esteemed Sir Mimsy de Hemulton, the lovely little collection _Thistles_,” Moominpappa continued, revealing a little book with a flourish of his paw. It was the same one Moomintroll had been so absorbed – a little thing, with a flashy purple cover, something painted on it in silver. Snufkin couldn’t make up the image on the cover. Snorkmaiden was also sitting in the front row, clutching an identical copy in her paws.

“Sir de Hemulton is, of course, a fascinating character. To debut as a poet after earning a knighthood! From a _King_,” Moominpappa said, brightening up at the mere mention of royalty.

“I’ve been writing to him, often, of course, but his responses are terribly enigmatic. So, we shall discuss the work ourselves!” he continued, taking a seat on a little stool up by the stage and opening his book. “Now, let’s discuss the sonnet ‘Summer Swallows’, which Sir de Hemulton noted as a particular favourite of his, written during his six days fasting in the Icy Desert.”

“Six days fasting in the Icy Desert?” Snufkin muttered, squinting. “The man would have been dead in the first two.”

“Uh, I _really_ think we should go,” Moomintroll said softly, pulling at his tail, but Snufkin wasn’t listening. This all was starting to give him an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. In Snufkin’s experience, it wasn’t clever to flee too quickly at such a feeling. One needed to work out where the uneasy feeling was coming from, after all.

“To begin, a brief reading!” Moominpappa said and cleared his throat with greater importance. “_Two nesting swallows cupped soft in your palm –_“

Snufkin was certain the blood had never left his face so quickly.

“Uh. Moomintroll. I – ah –“ he spluttered. Moomintroll just looked at him, one ear tilted down. From her seat, Snorkmaiden glanced over at them, her expression equally odd. Oblivious, Moominpappa continued with his reading:

_“-that snowdrop white, soft as petals –_“

“I forgot something! Must be off!” he said, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

****

As Snufkin ran off, only one word repeated over and over in his head.

Unfortunately, that word is much too rude to write down here. Please just know that he was in a great deal of distress.

“Now, now,” Snufkin told himself. “It could be a coincidence…”

A coincidence, that a poem with the exact same title and opening lines as his own work had made its way to publication? Unlikely.

Snufkin didn’t have his original copy to compare the stolen poem against. He only enjoyed writing poetry. Afterwards, he never really wanted to revisit it or share it. He just left the old notebook behind somewhere and procured a new one, ready to start again.

There was no denying the familiarity, though. After hearing it in Moominpappa’s voice, he couldn’t remember when or where he penned it, but the work was certainly his.

That didn’t solve the issue of how this De Hemulton fellow had come to claim it as his own, or why. Snufkin had never even met the chap.

Perhaps a piece of his notebook had torn lose? This de Hemulton fellow could have seen a scrap of paper somewhere and snatched it up. In all likelihood, de Hemulton’s entire collection was stolen pieces from here and there. Pitiful, but really none of Snufkin’s business.

He breathed out. Yes, alright, some sad old coot had stolen from him. It was nothing to worry about. Snufkin only stole what he needed, but perhaps this De Hemulton felt he needed this, for whatever reason. Snufkin certainly didn’t need this sort of attention. The fool was welcome to it, if he so desired.

It was fine.

Although a touch embarrassing to hear his own words back at him – especially such clumsy work, from so long ago - it was a passing fad. Snufkin was certain it would pass quickly.

****

It did not pass quickly. It felt as though everywhere Snufkin went, De Hemulton’s collection was waiting for him. Pappa’s new literary club was thriving, attracting more and more members every day. Poor Moominmamma was run ragged, fetching tea and cakes and lemonade for everyone. Moreover, her fantastic catering only made more people go out and buy a copy of the book, wanting an excuse to join in on the fun and free biscuits. Soon it was not just the stuffy hemulens and fillyjonks, but mymbles and forest trolls and whompers and all manners of creatures.

Snufkin tried to escape to the forest, but even the little creeps were talking about De Hemulton.

“_I _heard he scaled the Jagged Peak by himself.”

“Yes, I heard that! Apparently he was gifted jewels from the spirits up there!”

“Oh, yes, he’s fabulously wealthy. But apparently he just lives in a tent and gives everything to charity!”

“Oh, how gallant! He drew the cover himself as well, you know! How talented!”

Worse still, Snufkin was certain there was nothing in that collection but his own stolen work. It seemed De Hemulton had simply stumbled across his old notebook and claimed it as his own.

It was having a rather odd effect on Moomintroll. He seemed to read it a great deal, although Snufkin couldn’t imagine why. It was hardly good work, he thought. He was not trying to be modest – they were barely first drafts, written almost two years ago now. His current work was much improved, but even then, he was nothing to make such a fuss about.

For the life of him, he couldn’t see why Moomintroll spent so much time on it.

After fleeing from Snorkmaiden’s attempts to discuss the collection with him (not for the first time), Snufkin stumbled across Moomintroll in the forest. He was reading the little purple book again, face twisted in concentration. Perhaps trying to make sense of Snufkin’s sloppy use of symbolism? Or his inconsistent adherence to metre? Either way, Snufkin would prefer he stopped.

“You certainly do read that little pamphlet a great deal,” he said, leaning over and resting a paw on Moomintroll’s shoulder. Moomintroll jumped, almost dropping the book, and then clutched it to his chest, turning very pink.

“Oh, it’s just – I suppose it’s comforting, that’s all,” he said, and stood up, hastily tucking the book under his arm. “Would you like to spend the day together?”

“Hm, that depends,” Snufkin said, pretending it was even up for debate. “What did you have in mind?”

“Mamma needs strawberries for juice, I was going to go foraging,” he said. “The company would be nice.”

Snufkin huffed. Mamma seemed to barely have a moment to rest her legs, lately. Every time he went to Moominhouse, Moominpappa was out on the porch with the stuff friends from his literary society, chattering away about De Hemulton’s glamorous life and glamorous friends, with barely a word exchanged about the actual work. Moominmamma rushed between them, bowing to demands for juice or whisky or coffee or tobacco. The whole lot stayed there all night, smoking and swapping rumours.

“Strawberry foraging sounds like an excellent way to spend the day,” he said. “Although perhaps this is something where the more paws the better. Shall we fetch the others -“

“No!”

Snufkin’s jumped so hard his hat fell to the grass. Moomintroll looked away from him, ears flat against his head.

“Well, the thing with that is...” he said, picking up Snufkins' hat. “Everyone’s terribly busy.”

Snufkin pretended to think about this.

“Yes, I think you’re right. They really are.”

Moomintroll nodded solemnly.

“Horribly.”

“Wouldn’t even be worth asking.”

“Would just be an inconvenience if we did.”

Snufkin laughed, covering his mouth with a paw, and Moomintroll grinned at him. He put Snufkin's hat back on his head.

“Alright. I think I saw some wild strawberries growing eastwards,” Snufkin said, his foul mood lifted embarrassingly quickly.

“I knew you’d know where to gather them,” he said, following Snufkin as he led the way. “You’re so observant.”

It may well be his imagination, but Snufkin also thought Moomintroll had become far more complimentary lately. 

“I have to be rather observant of good foraging spots. Otherwise I could well go hungry.”

The statement came out of his mouth quite without thinking, but Moomintroll looked him up and down so thoroughly he immediately rather regretted it.

“Does that happen often then?” he asked, rubbing at the ruff around his neck.

“What, going hungry?” Snufkin said.

“Well, yes.”

He hummed.

“Only now and then. Not as often as when I was small, and not so good at caring for myself.”

They fell deadly silent at that, and Snufkin had the horrible sense he’d made a misstep. Moomintroll had never went hungry a day in his life – the concept was probably utterly foreign to him. While Snufkin hardly thought of it – the occasional pain of hunger was a small price to pay for his carefree lifestyle, after all – but the very idea probably disturbed Moomintroll deeply.

“You’re a bit skinny this year,” Moomintroll finally said, very quietly.

“Am I?”

“I mean! It’s hard to tell, with the coat, but usually you’re not quite so small around here,” he said, and slid a paw around Snufkin’s waist. His paw felt very warm and heavy. Their pace slowed until they were standing still, quite unintentionally.

Last autumn, moments like this had started cropping up. These odd little moments where they suddenly became awkward with one another in a way they never had before.

“You weren’t getting enough to eat this winter, were you?” Moomintroll said, tone accusatory.

“I’ll have plenty now I’m home,” Snufkin said quickly. “I’ll get round again on Mamma’s pancakes, and it will last me an entire winter.”

Moomintroll tilted his head, as though Snufkin had said something odd. Clearing his throat, Snufkin hopped forward, releasing himself from Moomintroll’s hold.

“Right then! Let’s hurry and fetch these strawberries. The locusts will be descending on poor Mamma again this evening, no doubt.”

Moomintroll was still looking at him oddly.

“…There’s an interesting poem, you know, in that collection, _Thistles_, about hunger,” Moomintroll said very gently.

“Enough poetry!” Snufkin replied, doing a slightly desperate cartwheel. “Aren’t you tired of hearing your father talk about it every night?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, totally. Totally boring,” Moomintroll said. “Just, you know, there’s –“

Oh, Snufkin did _not_ like where this conversation was going.

“Why don’t you tell me something from your winter,” he interrupted. “You were awake for a bit, I gather. Surely something exciting must have happened.”

“Oh, um…not much, actually,” Moomintroll said quietly.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he said, nudging their shoulders together, “Exciting things always happen around you.”

“It really didn’t this year,” Moomintroll said, shaking his head. “I painted and read a lot. I did start learning to bake from Mamma’s books. But that’s hardly exciting to you, I’ll bet.”

“Learning a new skill _is_ exciting,” he replied, smiling at him. “Tell me what you baked.”

“You can’t be interested.”

“You would know if I wasn’t,” Snufkin said honestly. Moomintroll laughed.

“Well, alright then. I only had what was in the larder to work with, but I did make this interesting pie…”

Thankfully, talking about his baking exploits distracted Moomintroll so thoroughly, Snufkin managed to have a blissfully poetry-free afternoon.

****

“Mimsy is coming to Moominvalley!” Snorkmaiden squealed, hopping up and down with the letter clutched to her chest. “Pappa and I have been writing, and he agreed to come talk about his collection! How glamorous! How exciting!”

Her news, however, was not met with the excitement she’d been anticipating. Sniff and Little My merely grunted, consumed with their game of poker (Little My was, strangely enough, losing). Snufkin just looked up at her inscrutably, chewing on a piece of straw. Moomintroll didn’t seem to have even heard – he had been far too busy lying on his stomach and staring at Snufkin as though he’d never seen him before.

_Honestly_.

For someone who was so resolute about ‘I could never, ever tell him, Snorkmaiden!’, he really was terrible at keeping it hidden. He was only lucky the old vagabond had two left feet when it came to social matters.

“Moomintroll!” she said.

“Huh?” he said, blinking.

“You must at the least be excited! You’ve read _Thistles_ more than anyone,” Snorkmaiden said.

“Read it?” Little My said with a snort. “He sleeps with it on his pillow!”

Snufkin’s eyes went very wide at that. Surely that wasn’t odd, Snorkmaiden thought. She slept with books she liked too, sometimes.

“I guess it’ll be interesting…” Moomintroll said, not remotely enthused. “What do you think, Snuf?”

“Don’t you have a mind of your own?” Little My said. “It’s pathetic, you know, looking to Snufkin for every little thing.”

“He doesn’t look to me for every little thing,” Snufkin protested.

“I just like to hear what he has to say about things!” Moomintroll huffed.

“Of _course_ you do,” Sniff said, not looking up from his cards. Moomintroll kicked him, hissing ‘Shut _up,_ Sniff’.

“Well, I can’t say I have an opinion,” Snufkin said. “I’m pleased Pappa’s venture is going so well.”

His voice sounded perfectly calm and amiable, but his nose was twitching. It always did when he lied. Others may not notice these things, but Snorkmaiden had known Snufkin longer than anyone. Right back to when he was just a little boy in a pink-and-white stripe dress, mispronouncing his own name.

If she was honest, his obvious disdain for De Hemulton’s work mystified her. Yes, it was a little sentimental and perhaps even a little unpolished in places, but she thought he would appreciate the enormous strength of feeling in the collection. Or, at the very least, the reverence for nature present throughout.

She had been so excited to chat about it with him too. he was fun to talk to about these things, even if the two of them rarely agreed. Yet whenever she tried to chat to him about it, even to find out what he disliked so much, he simply went silent.

“Well, I think it will be a lovely event,” she said. “And it will be so exciting to meet Mimsy, after all._ And _he’s rather handsome.”

“How do you figure that?” Little My asked, scowling at her. “Men who write poetry always look like they fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. That’s why they write poetry to begin with!”

“Well not _this_ poet,” Snorkmaiden said. “There was a photo in the paper, and he’s _very _good-looking.”

“There was a photo!?” Moomintroll said, jolting upright. “Do you have it?”

“Moomintroll,” she tutted. “I don’t carry around photos of _every_ handsome man I have designs on.”

Moomintroll gave her a Look.

“…Alright, yes, I have it,” she said, sighing and pulling the newspaper clipping out of her copy of _Thistles_, pausing to admire it again. He really was a handsome hemulen. And unlike most hemulens, who went bald the second they became adults, he still had a full head of glorious violet hair, arranged in artful curls. And his gaze was _very _arresting. Even dangerous! How _exciting_ to think he would be in the valley soon enough!

Before Snorkmaiden had any longer to get really lost in her fantasy, Moomintroll snatched the photo from her. He glowered down at it with far more intent than was remotely necessary. Little My leaned over to look at it.

“Pah. He looks like he’s so up himself he’s about ready to turn inside out,” she said.

“Just looks like a regular hemulen to me,” Sniff added, squinting.

“Shush, you two!” Snorkmaiden snapped. “Moomintroll?”

“Eh,” Moomintroll said, and handed the photo back.

“Oh honestly. You all have no taste. Snufkin!” she snapped. Snufkin looked rather alarmed to be addressed. “You look at it. You, at the very least, may appreciate a handsome fellow.”

“Why would I do that?” he grumbled. All the same, he consented to have the photo shoved into his face. He looked at it for a long time, mouth puckered as though he’d been sucking on a lemon.

“He’s too arrogant to be handsome,” he declared.

“How would you know he’s arrogant?” she said.

“The interview around the photo, of course. He brags about his PhD and his knighthood and namedrops all those awful rich people he’s friends with,” he said. “Insufferable.”

“Well, of course he talks about himself, Snufkin. It’s an interview about him,” she replied, looking at the photo again. “And he doesn’t _look_ arrogant.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, I’m sure he will look much more dashing in real life,” she said, deciding not to look at the picture too hard from now on. “Few people photograph well.”

“You do,” Little My pointed out. Snorkmaiden smiled at her.

“Of course, I do. All of us do, but we’re lucky to be such a good-looking group,” she said, checking her reflection in the little hand-mirror from her purse. “You know, I think I’m rather Mimsy’s type. This muse he’s always describing, it sounds rather like me.”

Snufkin almost choked on his piece of straw.

“His muse?” Sniff asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes, I suppose that’s what we’ve started calling her. He bangs on about the same troll a lot. The descriptions are consistent enough to be the same person, rather than a string of lovers,” she said, and then sighed. “Oh, there’s this lovely line. Oh, how did it go – ‘_as daffodils spring, you –‘_, hm.”

“_As daffodils spring, they light my way home to you,’_” Moomintroll piped up, staring down at the grass.

“Sentimental rubbish,” Snufkin grumbled.

“Oh, lighten _up_,” Snorkmaiden chastised him. “It’s sweet! There’s another section – oh, the thing about the pillow, Moomintroll.”

“Um, ‘_my pillow your arm, sleeping sounder than ever’._”

“What’s sleeping sounder than ever? The writer or the arm?” Snufkin said. He was going redder than Snorkmaiden had ever seen him, right down to his neck. Goodness, Snorkmaiden thought, what on earth was he so _angry_ about?

“Well, what about the one about the camelias?” she snapped, irritated that Snufkin was being so belligerent. “Ah, here: ‘_Camelias bloom only at my heels…’”_

“Trite,” Snufkin spat. “Borderline gibberish.”

“By my tail, Snufkin! What has you in such a terrible mood?” Snorkmaiden cried, throwing up her arms with frustration.

“I can’t abide sloppy poetry. You know me well enough to know that.”

“It’s _subjective_. You’re hardly the one to decide what’s sloppy and what’s not,” she stressed. He only grunted. Good Groke’s underpants, she loved him dearly, but he was so _pretentious_ sometimes. How Moomintroll never wanted to throttle him was beyond her.

“Besides,” she said, “so many in the valley like it, it can’t be as bad as you say.”

“Well perhaps you all have awful taste!” Snufkin snapped, leaping to his feet and storming off.

They all sat frozen as he stalked off. Snorkmaiden had seen Snufkin lose his temper before – it was a rare occurrence, but not a non-existent one. It was always embarrassing and awful, all the same. She felt terrible to have poked and prodded at him so badly.

Yet he normally kept his composure much better around Moomintroll. Poor Moomintroll had never seen it before. He stared after Snufkin, looking like he’d been struck. With a sigh, she put an arm around his shoulders. It had been an odd autumn for Moomintroll, after all, and then a difficult winter, and a horribly long spring.

“It must be because it didn’t rhyme,” Sniff piped up, scooping up his winnings from Little My. “Snufkin hates poetry that doesn’t rhyme. Everybody knows that.”

****

The thing with storming off was that one regretted it almost as soon as doing it, but one couldn’t simply storm back. When one stormed off, this was something that needed to be done to completion. Someone who stormed off and returned too soon simply looked silly, and Snufkin couldn’t abide that.

So, he was to storm off all afternoon. Even though he’d rather just go back and act like he hadn’t had such an embarrassing outburst. In front of _Moomintroll_ of all people.

“Perhaps I’m not so happy to be stolen from after all,” he muttered to himself. It was a silly thing to admit – why should it matter, after all? Words didn’t belong to anyone, and he put no particular stake on his poetry. He wrote it for the writing of it. He shouldn’t care in the least what happened to it afterwards!

Stomping aimless towards the river, Snufkin heard some music in the distance. It sounded a little like whatever Moomintroll had been listening to on the day he’d came back, albeit a little more cheerful.

Following the sound, Snufkin found a little cart parked among the trees. It looked a little like a circus cart, the type crueller ringmasters caged poor lions or tigers in, but the front had been split into two doors, swung open. IN front of the cart were many small bookshelves, crammed and stacked high with paperbacks and hardback and cardboard picture books and little zines and many other things beside. A gramophone, the horn painted a jolly shade of red, sat on the grass beside them, playing music.

Snufkin approached, frowning. Behind the counter, the bookseller was asleep with a comic book over their face, their boots resting on the counter. The table at the very front of the display was stacked high with volumes of the little purple book Snufkin had begun to dread the sight of.

He picked a copy up. The silver painting on the front was rather nice – a somewhat abstract rendition of thistle – but as a whole it was gaudy. The silver paint was glittery and dotted with sequins, and the title of the book was somewhat lost in it. The author’s name stuck out in huge letters at the bottom, and on the spine, and on the back, even on the inner covers, as though De Hemulton were terrified anyone would try to steal from him. Snufkin supposed capitalists were like that – they’d steal merrily from anyone smaller and less consequential than them, but heaven forbid anyone return the favour.

Glancing over to check the bookseller was still asleep, Snufkin flicked through the book. The pages were bone-white, the print on them neat and rigid and grey-black. Occasionally, a poem was accompanied by an illustration, rendered just as perfectly neatly. The publishing house had done an excellent job with the design, yet all it did was make the work itself more amateurish. Every bungled metaphor and trite cliché seemed to bulge on the page, the melodrama of each piece inflated by the self-importance of its packaging.

He wished he could give his younger self a good slap for writing any of it.

He couldn’t really bear to reread anything in full, but one line caught his eye.

_‘…to burrow in the snow of her fur…’_

Eyes wide, Snufkin flicked through the pages, scanning every poem to check his eyes were not mistaken.

_‘…the soft space she leaves…’_

_‘…with gold running between her paws…’_

She?

Her?

What was this nonsense!

His fury was popping and spitting at the base of his gut, like a log being consumed on the fire. He imagined tipping over the table and kicking every last copy of this awful collection into the river mud. He pressed his paws against the underside of the weight of it, testing the weight.

“You’ll have to buy any copies you ruin.”

He jumped. The bookseller, feet still on the counter, lifted the comic book off their face. Snufkin had rather been expecting a stern old man with half-moon spectacles. More fool him for making assumptions. Instead, it was a squat muddler woman, perhaps around Mamma’s age. One of her ears was dyed pink and the other violet, and she had a little burnished gold hoop in the side of her nose.

“I don’t want it,” he said quickly, putting it down hard enough that he managed to tip a whole stack to the floor. The Bookseller watched him, twitching her toes.

“Pick those up,” she said, so plainly that to deny her would simply make him look childish. Hiding his scowl in the brim of his hat, he stooped to gathered up the books, stacking them in a neat pile. He placed them back on the table and was about to grumble a farewell and be on his way, when something bit his finger.

He yelped, snatching his arm out of the way. A little creature came flying out of one of the books. Snufkin fell back and the little creature landed on top of a stack. It was a small worm-like creature, covered in fuzzy green fur. It stared down at him with black glittering eyes, its black antenna twitching. Now that it wasn’t biting him, Snufkin couldn’t see its mouth.

“Dorothy, that’s not nice at all,” the Bookseller said lazily. The little creature – Dorothy – bounced away, bouncing between every bookshelf and table until she reached the Bookseller’s counter, and then crawled her way up onto her shoulder. The Bookseller rested her comic book on her thighs.

“Are you a writer then?” she said, scratching Dorothy’s cheek absently.

“Not really,” he answered, getting to his feet and eying the little creature carefully. Her short fur seemed to shimmer, green and ink-red and pale parchment yellow

“Don’t lie, you must be. Dorothy is a Bookworm - she only tries to get a taste of writers,” the Bookseller said.

“A Bookworm!” Snufkin cried, because even in his foul mood he couldn’t help but get excited over that. “They’re very rare, aren’t they?”

The Bookseller smiled at him, something in her eyes telling him she’d rather expected him to react this way.

“They are.”

“Dorothy, was it?”

“Well, at the minute. She’s eating her way through the _Wizard of Oz_ right now, you see,” she said. “Last week she was Alice, before that she was Sophie. I couldn’t get her to be _anything_ other than Lyra for a full two months, once.”

“She has good taste,” Snufkin said.

“Of course she does,” the Bookseller said. “So what are you reading at the minute, kiddo?”

Snufkin frowned. Now he thought about it, he wasn’t reading anything at all. He’d finished his book when he was trapped up in the mountains and hadn’t a chance to get anything since.

“Nothing.”

“Well no wonder you’re in such a huff,” the Bookseller said. “Reading is when we’re most in love with the world, you know.”

He grunted, not at all in the mood for aphorisms. He wasn’t in much of a mood for anything. He felt stupid and blank and not at all like himself.

The Bookseller observed him for a long moment.

“Come here. I’ll make you a coffee,” she said. Without waiting for his answer, she stood and turned away, turning on a machine lodged among all the books and bric-a-brac at the back of the shop.

Cautiously, lest he get bitten again, Snufkin approached the counter. There was a little stool hidden among the stacked books, and he awkwardly climbed onto it.

Dorothy hopped down from the Bookseller’s shoulder to the counter, looking up at him with something apologetic in her gaze. Now he got closer, he saw the shifting colours in her fur reflected shifting words, appearing and disappearing up her body, as though written by an invisible hand.

“It really is nice to meet you, Dorothy,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I overreacted – it seems to be all I do, lately.”

He offered her finger and she touched it with her antennae, wiggling it in a funny imitation of a handshake.

“She’s lovely,” Snufkin said, looking back up. The Bookseller smiled at him and put a chipped enamel mug in front of him. The mug was dark green, painted with leaves and petals in burnished gold. The coffee was dark as the earth and smelled rich, warm between his paws.

“Thank you,” he said, surprised by how sincerely grateful he felt. He took a sip of the coffee and then looked at Dorothy again, nibbling at a corner of _The Importance of Being Earnest. _

“Isn’t it a bit counterproductive to keep a Bookworm, if one wants to own a book store?” he asked. The Bookseller grinned and sat back down opposite him, her own mug in hand.

“Not at all! Bookworms are such voracious readers, that can look at any customer and find them exactly the book they need. Even books I never knew I had!” she said, tucking her free paw behind her head and leaning on her chair’s back legs. “She even takes me to where I will sell best.”

“And she took you to Moominvalley?” Snufkin asked, a little dubious. The Bookseller nodded, reaching down to let Dorothy crawl up her arm.

“Right in the middle of winter, no less,” she said cheerfully.

“Funny choice. Almost everyone’s asleep for that time,” he said.

“I know. But she insisted,” the Bookseller said, touching the end of Dorothy’s snout with the tip of her finger. “And what luck! That awful man’s book would have never shifted otherwise.”

It wasn’t as though he disagreed, but Snufkin couldn’t help but be a bit offended at that.

“It’s very popular,” he said, trying not to sound defensive.

“Yes. It’s funny, you know. That De Hemulton snob forced a copy on us, but Dorothy wouldn’t eat it all – not a page, not even to nibble the corners,” she said, letting Dorothy crawl into her fur of her ears. “My dear little Dorothy will try everything, normally.”

“It must really be a lot of old rubbish then.”

“On the contrary, I read a little and quite liked it,” she replied, just as cheerfully as she said everything. “It’s not the most polished work, but it’s very charming.”

Charming. He wasn’t sure that was a compliment. It sounded like something someone came up with when they had nothing nicer to say. He sulked further.

“It does, however, sound like something a much _younger_ person than De Hemulton would write,” she said, fixing him with a look. “Fishy. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” he muttered, hiding his face in his cup of coffee. “If Dorothy wouldn’t even try it, how did it end up selling at all?”

“Funnier story still. Mind if I tell it?”

“Please do,” he said. She smiled at him, rocking back and forth on her chair like a badly-behaved schoolboy.

“So, the first few days in Moominvalley were a bore. Nobody awake at all, just the Lady of the Cold singing outside the cart every night, hoping we were fool enough to open the doors,” she said, shaking her head. “I was starting to think Dorothy had made her first-ever mistake, when the moomin boy from up the hill came by.”

“Moomintroll?” Snufkin said, sitting up. The Bookseller’s ears flapped with amusement.

“Oh, you know him?”

“In a sense.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the counter and her chin on her paw.

“Now, you wouldn’t be Snufkin, would you?”

He didn’t much enjoy the smirk she was giving him.

“And what if I am?”

“Then you’re very lucky to have someone who will speak so fondly of you,” the Bookseller said, grinning from ear to flapping ear now. Snufkin went red and drank his coffee. She laughed and added another couple of sugar cubes to her own cup, before taking a loud slurp.

“I can continue this story as though you’re not Snufkin,” she said, gesturing towards him with her mug, “if that will embarrass you less.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Please. You’re young - you’re embarrassed all the time and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. Best just embrace it for now,” she said, and winked, “after all, before you know it, you’ll be an old and batty like me, and you won’t be embarrassed by anything at all!”

She gave a cackle at that, and Dorothy made an odd squeaky sort of noise, covering her face with the end of her tail. Snufkin tried to imagine himself at their age, but he couldn’t picture it. He rarely thought of the future. He simply didn’t know what it would be, not even the vague shape other creatures seemed able to make.

The thought used to be quite comforting, but over the past few years it had become rather lonely and uneasy.

He didn’t like to think of it.

“So…Moomintroll was your first customer over winter?” he said.

“Yes, he was here a lot. Funny, though. I thought every moomin hibernated over winter.”

“He’s an unusual moomin,” he said quietly.

“I’m sure he is,” she said, smiling at him. “First time he came here, he just kept picking up books and putting them down, over and over Eventually I sent Dorothy out to figure out what he needed. She zipped right off and dug up that little book of poetry, right from the back of my reserve stock. It was the most peculiar thing.”

“Peculiar indeed,” Snufkin muttered, squinting down at his cup of coffee.

“It’s the oddest thing about being a bookseller,” she said, taking his empty cup and turning to clean it in a small basin. “The book someone needs is rarely the best book you have.”

“So, Dorothy gave the book to everyone else too?”

She laughed.

“Not at all! It was very annoying for her, actually. First the older moomin came by demanding a copy, saying something about wanting to talk to his son about it. Then before long he had his friends buying copies, and then their friends, and so on. Books can catch like wildfires sometimes,” she said. “Poor Dorothy – she was desperately trying to choose books for people, but everybody who came to the cart already knew what they wanted.”

Dorothy let out a sound like a deflating balloon, antennae drooping.

“She can fetch me a book, if she’d like. I promise I’ll accept it,” Snufkin said, and the little Bookworm perked up.

“Very kind of you,” the Bookseller said, but then rapped the price board behind her. “That will be a threepence.”

Snufkin frowned.

“Oh, I know money isn’t used much in the valley, but we Booksellers need it,” she said. “It is, unfortunately, what you buy more books with.”

“I don’t really carry money,” Snufkin admitted. Not exactly true, but he only did at the very start of winter. Moominmamma always managed to sew a little purse of travel money into his clothes before he left. It did not matter how rigidly he guarded his pack or his cloak.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re well-adored enough here someone will spot you a threepence,” the Bookseller replied, yawning. “You come back when you have that, little Snufkin, and Dorothy will find you something.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said. “So Moomintroll was here often?”

“Very often. Seemed lonely.”

“I suppose he would have been...”

Winter _was_ lonely in Moominvalley. Snufkin suspected even he would find it isolating. It was dark and cold and much of the valley was asleep. It couldn’t have been easy for Moomintroll, who liked to be around others so much.

The Bookseller yawned and put her feet back on the counter.

“Alright, I need to get back to work,” she said, putting her comic book back over her face and settling down for a nap. “Be off with you. I’m very busy.”

Snufkin raised his eyebrows at her, biting back a laugh. He supposed he needed to go catch supper about this time, anyway.

“I can tell. Thank you for the coffee,” he said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“I tend to do that. Good luck, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. [Snorkmaiden voice] [ Is Mimsy De Hemulton hot????? Is he??? You will be banned if you try to talk about De Hemulton's work. We are here to discuss his appearance ONLY. Things he made with his brain do not matter one tiny little rat's ass.](https://www.facebook.com/events/d41d8cd9/was-ernest-hemingway-hot/900200660075634/)
> 
> 2\. [I imagine Dorothy looking almost exactly like this](http://www.tycollector.com/beanies/bb-images/inch-4044-2.jpg)
> 
> 3\. The Bookseller is based on every woman working at an indie bookstore who I developed a crush on five seconds after stepping into the store. Every damn time.


	2. Act Two: Our hero’s tentative resolve is tested.

The next morning, Snufkin _entirely_ intended to go straight to Moominhouse and talk to Moomintroll. Leaving aside his own problems and the odd note they’d left on in autumn, it was clear Moomintroll had been through a difficult winter. He would be a lousy friend, Snufkin thought, if he kept interrupting every time Moomintroll tried to talk about it. No matter how silly it made Snufkin feel.

Yet the night was broken by a loud and noisy automobile had cutting through the valley, tearing up the lovely grass and upending the flower heads. In the morning, it was parked outside of Moominhouse, and more had joined it besides. People were out, hurrying around, chattering and gossiping and sipping coffee.. There were paparazzi running around in their odd herds, sending flashes of light this way and that, making endless amounts of noise.

As soon as Snufkin emerged from his tent in the morning, he was almost bowled over by a group of self-important-looking men in jumpers, all clutching leather-bound notebooks and fountain pens. Just as he managed to steady himself from that, a woman in a pantsuit with impressive shoulder pads charged towards him, shouting orders at a little creep wearing an earpiece, who barely had time to write them down.

“Latte, extra large, skimmed milk, no foam, triple shot, whip, with cinnamon!” she barked at Snufkin.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Urgh!” she replied, and then hurried off, the little creep close on her tail.

This was not his peaceful Moominvalley. He didn’t know _what_ this place was.

“All of this over some soppy old poems,” crowed Little My.

“Good morning, Little My,” Snufkin said with a sigh, turning to see Little My lying curled up on her stomach on the top of his tent. “I suppose this ruckus drove you out of Moominhouse?”

“You know how I feel about ruckuses I didn’t start,” she said, lifting her head up just enough to rest her chin on the back of her paws. “Turns out poets don’t think anything of turning up on time. Whether that’s being very late…or very early.”

“He’s here already?” he said, eyes widening.

“Yup. The great Mimsy De Hemulton, and all his merry idiots,” she said, and sat up with a stretch.

Groke’s nose, Snufkin had been rather hoping he would have time to figure out what he was going to do with the thief. He didn’t for a second want to reclaim the work as his own, but the way it had been stolen and distorted sickened him. The issue was how to resolve the latter without doing the former.

“I’m surprised you’re not off causing trouble,” he said. Little My snorted and slid down the side of the tent, hopping to her feet at the bottom.

“There’ll be trouble enough without me there, pal,” she said. “You won’t believe the fuss the old snob made. Apparently the only breakfast he accepts is poached quails’ eggs and pancetta, and the only coffee he’ll accept is kopi luwak.”

Snufkin wrinkled his nose.

“I doubt he even knows what that is,” he said.

Little My grinned at him.

“Don’t worry, I did,” she said unpleasantly. “And I made him a cup of my own special blend, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll dare say I do,” he said, laughing. “Don’t take offense if I decline to try some.”

“Wouldn’t waste it on you anyway. I’m going to find somewhere to watch for a while,” she said, swatting at his coat as she trotted past. “Call me when you’ve worked up the guts to do something about this whole mess!”

She chuckled to herself.

“Right,” he muttered. “Doing something about this.

Snufkin grabbed his rucksack and pulled it onto his back, gripping the straps tight. He looked up at Moominhouse, surrounded by paparazzi. The front lawn had been laid out with every table and chair in the Moominhouse. De Hemulton’s friends and the Moominvalley literary society sat in little groups, chatting and sipping tea and strawberry juice. There would be no way through the front door without passing through that rabble.

Fortunately, Snufkin was nothing if not good at sneaking around. Any snufkin had to be, if they wanted to get about in the world, especially with more and more people holding silly opinions where one can or cannot camp or where one can or cannot forage from. He slipped past the hordes easily, heading to the back. Through the window, he saw Moominmamma and Moomintroll in the kitchen. Moomintroll kneaded dough on the counter, thick fur covered in flour, clearly breathing heavily. Moominmamma rushed back and forth, doing just about every little job in the kitchen it was possible to do.

They looked terribly stressed.

He was just thinking that perhaps he should slink off and wait for this to blow over, when Moomintroll spotted him.

“Snufkin!” he shouted, yanking the kitchen window open, getting a great deal of flour everywhere in the process.

“Good morning,” Snufkin said, climbing in through the window and tipping his hat.

“Oh, yeah, uh – so, do you need anything?” Moomintroll said, leaning his elbow in the bread dough (Snufkin swore he saw Mamma _roll her eyes_, but that couldn’t possibly be right).

“Hm, well, I was hoping for a word,” he said. He nudged Moomintroll’s elbow from the dough and wiped away the clump of dough clinging to his fur. “You look rather busy, though.”

“De Hemulton arrived in the night,” Moomintroll explained.

“He caught us terribly unprepared,” Mamma said, attempting to squeeze lemons and poach eggs at the same time. “Pappa thought he wouldn’t be here until the weekend…it can be difficult, catering on such short notice. I also was very silly and didn’t expect there to be so many people…”

“We’ll manage, Mamma,” Moomintroll said soothingly. “I can help in the kitchen now, you know.”

“Oh, I know we always manage. This is just very important to your father,” she said, poaching a lemon and juicing an egg. “He gets terribly bored sometimes. You know how he craves a more sophisticated crowd.”

“Family!” called Moominpappa, sticking his snout though the kitchen door. “How is breakfast coming along?”

“Almost ready, dear,” Mamma called, washing raw egg out of her fur in the kitchen sink.

“Pappa, does he really _need_ fresh-baked bread for his toast?” Moomintroll said, going back to furiously kneading bread.

“Ah, my boy, De Hemulton is an _auteur_! They have particular needs, you know! They must be catered to!” Pappa said. “Geniuses are always difficult! Take me, for example. I am an extremely talented moomin, but am I an easy one?”

“Not in the least,” Moomintroll grumbled. Snufkin bit back a laugh.

“Exactly! So –“

“Mr Moomin! Mr Moomin!” said the little creep wearing an earpiece, rushing down the stairs. “Sir De Hemulton would like to see you in your study.”

“Ah, yes, we have many important matters to discuss!” he said, turning back to his family. “De Hemulton is working on his own memoirs, you see, so he looks to me for advice on such things. Terribly sorry I can’t stop and chat longer, but I am _swamped_ this morning! Cheerio!”

Moominpappa swept away upstairs, the little creep following close behind and keeping up a nervous stream of chatter. Neither Moomintroll nor Mamma stopped working for a second.

“Moomintroll, while the bread’s proving, can you prepare more coffee and strawberry juice?” Mamma said. “Take them out when you’re done.”

“Right!” Moomintroll said, shoving the ball of dough into the drawer under the oven. He dusted the flour off his paws on a tea-towel. “Now, where’s that coffee blend Little My was using…”

“Use mine,” Snufkin said quickly, offering up a pouch of beans from the pockets of his coat. Moomintroll smiled at him, fetching the grinder from a drawer. He instantly went to grinding the beans, mumbling a ‘thank you’ at Snufkin.

“I’m sorry, Snuf,” he said. “We’ll talk in a moment.”

Moominmamma rushed past him, getting something out of the oven and plates out of the cupboard, before srushing back to her previous post.

It was not often Snufkin felt useless. The feeling didn’t sit well with him at all.

“May I help?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s terribly kind of you. But there isn’t really that much that needs doing, dear,” Mamma said, flipping a pancake with one paw and stirring lemonade with the other.

“I insist.”

“Well –“

“Moomintroll! Mamma!” Snorkmaiden shouted, appearing at the doorway in her dressing gown, her hair bundled into a towel. “Why did nobody tell me that Mimsy would be arriving _today_?”

“Goodness, dear, none of us knew!” Mamma said.

“Where is he? I’m not prepared!”

“He’s up in Pappa’s study –“

“He’s in the _house_?” Snorkmaiden squealed. “Moomintroll, you have to come help me get ready and do my make-up !”

“Snorkmaiden,” Moomintroll grunted, still grinding the beans. “We’re a little busy.”

“Please, Moomintroll! I can’t think straight at all, I’ll make a big mess if I do it by myself!” she said. “And you know Sniff’s no help with this, he just thinks I should wear every piece of jewellery I own all the time.”

“I –“

Moomintroll looked from Snufkin to Mamma to Snorkmaiden, clearly overwhelmed. Something twinged in Snufkin’s chest and he rested his paw on Moomintroll’s back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder-blades.

“Just go help her. I’ll take over here,” he said.

“You’ll have to take drinks out to them. And food,” he warned, flicking his tail towards the front porch. “And they won’t be grateful, believe me.”

Snufkin leaned across to look out the front door, where De Hemulton’s various friends and fans were loitering, sipping juice and smoking cigars. One of them made a bawdy comment and the others laughed.

The most interesting thing about them was how very un-interesting their conversation was. For all they purported to be literary types, they seemed to mostly talk about money, and who mymbled with who, and how much cleverer and more unique they were compared to the unread masses.

Snufkin hadn’t heard anyone mention a book yet.

Serving them drinks would be utterly miserable work.

He glanced up at Moomintroll, how miserable and over-heated he looked in his thick winter coat, with the summer sun beating through the windows and every oven in the kitchen on. He looked so tired.

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” he said airily. Relief spread warmly across Moomintroll’s face, and he put his arm around Snufkin’s shoulders in a one-armed hug.

“You’re a life-saver, Snuf, thank you,” he said, and nuzzled Snufkin’s forehead with his snout. They both froze, as though Moomintroll only just realised what he did after he did it.

“Uh.”

Before Snufkin could even formulate a response, Snorkmaiden seized Moomintroll’s arm.

“Help me pick an outfit!” she demanded, dragging him away. Snufkin just stood, rubbing his forehead like an idiot, suddenly very conscious of how hot the oven beside him was.

“Would you like to finish making the coffee, dear…or do you perhaps need to lie down for a moment?” Mamma said, barely managing to smother a giggle. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon me,” he said, putting the coffee pot on the stove and lighting it. “How many cups do we need?”

Mamma opened a cupboard to find it quite bare. She grimaced.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to go out and collect the ones they already have.”

“Joy.”

****

“You are a mess,” Snorkmaiden informed Moomintroll, closing the door to her bedroom behind them.

“I know,” he said miserably, and then glowered at her. “It’s your fault, you know! You should have never told me. I don’t know how to act normally around him now!”

“It’s very silly I had to tell you about your own crush in the first place, Moomintroll.”

He huffed and glowered at the wall. It seemed he didn’t want to talk it any more than that. Just as well, really - Moomintroll was absolutely no fun to talk about boys with. He took them much too seriously.

Last autumn, Snorkmaiden made a terrible miscalculation. She had thought – very reasonably! - that if Moomintroll _knew_ about his crush on Snufkin, he would be able to deal with it a bit more calmly. Yet, if anything, it only seemed to have gotten _worse._ All the sighing out of windows like a forlorn princess, the wistfully sailing bark boats, jumping at every little sound, as though every little crack of a twig was Snufkin walking up the hill.

And the_ flirting_! It was just so much.

She supposed that Moomintroll being smitten with Snufkin was better than the sea horse he’d fallen for a while back. And it was better than him still being infatuated with Snorkmaiden herself. It was an odd selection of people to fall for, and Snorkmaiden sometimes puzzled over what on earth could connect the three of them.

After much thought, she had only been able to come to the embarrassing conclusion that Moomintroll liked people who were just a little bit mean to him.

Oh, yes, Snufkin was much gentler with him than the sea horse had been. Or even compared to herself. The mean thing was that Snufkin just didn’t seem the type to fall in love. His aggressive rejection of every little drop of romance in Mimsy’s poems had made that very clear. Listening to him be so nasty about it must be very hard for Moomintroll, especially after the poor thing spent so much of winter awake and alone.

But _honestly_. It was exhausting.

She tossed Moomintroll a dress.

“Find some accessories to go with this,” she said. “I’m going to start oiling my fur.”

“Alright,” he said, stroking the end of his snout absently. She rolled her eyes and let him get on with rummaging through her ribbon drawer.

She tried to get excited for hunting Mimsy down later, but his early arrival had rather thrown her off.

Poets being difficult and tempestuous characters was very lovely and romantic in novels and in films. But turning up days early and throwing a house into chaos was quite annoying in real life. She’d planned to spend the day working on her novel, and that was entirely out of the window now. And she’d been gotten to a very interesting scene, too…

No, no, Snorkmaiden. Happy, carefree, laid-back, that was everything a vivacious young lady should be! Think of the positives, the opportunities! De Hemulton was an esteemed bachelor. He had a PhD from Pompington’s University, and he was friends with the most _glamorous _actresses and directors and publishers. Having him on her arm would be an enormous boon and put her in excellent company.

Networking was two-thirds of a creative career, after all.

****

Snufkin did not consider himself someone who tired easily. He foraged and fished for his own food, travelled everywhere on his feet with all his possessions strapped to his back. He hiked up treacherous mountain paths and swam across fierce ravines, dived down waterfalls, and all of that before breakfast.

Waitering, it turned out, was much more exhausting than any of that. De Hemulton’s friends were endlessly demanding – if he wasn’t fetching drinks or cleaning up spills or bringing out nibbles, he was rushing around with Moominmamma in the kitchen. In spare seconds, he had to lean against the counter in the kitchen to catch his breath, the balls of his feet aching and his calves turning to jelly.

He was rushing about so much that he eventually took off his coat and his scarf, just so he didn’t overheat. This had the unfortunate effect of causing a trio of old ladies to take an immediate and baffling liking to him. Aside from being very complimentary and nosy, they constantly asked for more drinks and snacks - seemingly just for the pleasure of seeing him bring them.

(Judging by the occasional cackling from the flowerpot in the centre of the table, Little My found this incredibly entertaining.)

Worse than the flattery, though, was the people who just treated him like a piece of furniture, mutely shoving empty glasses at him to refill or clicking their fingers for attention. The worst was that woman who came to Snufkin’s tent earlier in the morning, demanding coffee. From what he could tell, she was De Hemulton’s agent. Yet all she seemed to do was order people about and make cruel remarks everyone was forced to laugh at, even though they were too nasty to be funny.

Some of them seemed nice enough, he supposed. The problem was that nasty people were so much _louder_. It didn’t matter if there were nice people when all one heard was the cruel ones. Snufkin only managed to restrain his temper by thinking of poor Mamma, frantic and exhausted in her kitchen, and how hard she was working to make this go well.

Around noon (which came later that day than any other day in Snufkin’s entire life), one of the old ladies tugged on Snufkin’s shirt.

“Ooh, look, young man, that’s Sir De Hemulton,” one of the old ladies said, tugging on Snufkin’s shirt.

“Oh, Mimsy, do come sit with us!” another one cried. “Come meet the lovely young man who’s been fetching us juice!”

Descending down the veranda stairs with the air of a king returning to his subjects, De Hemulton approached, greeted by crows of “Oh, Mimsy!”, “Dear Sir De Hemulton!”, and “Mimsy, dearest, we saved you a seat!”. He smiled winningly about at the crowd, the silver frills and sequins on his garish purple robe gleaming in the sunlight.

His gaze slid right over the old ladies and Snufkin as though they were not even there, and he made a bee-line for the table where the youngest, prettiest ladies were all sitting together.

“Wine, we must have wine!” De Hemulton shouted, as Moominpappa emerged from the front door. “Mr Moomin, you must have a wine cellar here! Get your staff to bring up the finest bottle you have!”

“Capital idea, Sir De Hemulton!” Moominpappa said. He turned to call towards the kitchen window. “Mamma! It’s time to crack open the Bordeaux!”

Mamma, who was in the middle of bringing out the bread from the oven and laying out half a dozen cheeseboards, nodded.

“Alright dear, I’ll get on it!”

“I’ll get it,” Snufkin said, gesturing for Mamma to slow down. She smiled at him gratefully.

“So where is this son of yours, Mr Moomin?” De Hemulton said. “You said he was something of a painter?”

Hmph. If De Hemulton tried to ply Moomintroll over to his side, Snufkin may very well throw a real tantrum. Not that there was much chance of success at that – aside from that whole thing with that awful sea horse, Moomintroll was usually not taken in by villains.

He headed inside, passing Snorkmaiden, in a very well-made looking dress Snufkin had never seen before. On an ordinary day, he would compliment her good handiwork, but she was much too occupied with getting outside and finding De Hemulton to notice him.

Normally he found Snorkmaiden’s ‘conquests’ (as she herself called them) rather entertaining to watch. Even when she complained about how difficult it was to be proposed to so often (making Little My glower and Moomintroll roll his eyes), she did seem to enjoy herself.

This one, however, Snufkin wasn’t sure if it was wise for her to pursue. De Hemulton was much too old for her, to begin with. He paused, glancing outside, where Snorkmaiden was introducing herself, giggling and twirling her hair.

It really wasn’t his place. Snorkmaiden would only resent his interference.

Trying to put the worry out of his mind, Snufkin fetched a bottle of cranberry juice and a funnel from the kitchen. Giving Mamma an assuring nod, he opened the door to the cellar.

To his great surprise, he spotted a great white furry something at the foot of the stairs. With Mamma in the kitchen, and both Pappa and Snorkmaiden mingling outside, there was only one person it could be.

Snufkin hesitated. Moomintroll looked rather downcast, and Snufkin was hardly skilled at comforting people. Perhaps he should just make a hasty retreat and talk to him later.

He was about to just that when his foot snagged on a little snickering orange-haired _something. _He wobbled, arms cartwheeling, but it was no good. With a yelp, he tumbled backwards down the stairs. He smacked down the first flight, making a terrible undignified noise as he attempted not to choke on the funnel, the bottle of cranberry juice landing painfully on top of his chest.

“Snufkin?” Moomintroll blurted out, leaping to his feet. Snufkin took the funnel out of his mouth, looking up at him.

“Hullo. Why are you sitting in the dark?” he said, shifting onto his side and trying to look like he fell down flights of stairs entirely intentionally.

The way Moomintroll’s ears twitched told him he was not buying it in the least.

“I really needed to sit somewhere cold. And the lights don’t work,” he said.

“I see. Your winter coat is lovely but I can’t imagine it’s comfortable in this weather,” he said, sitting up. Moomintroll offered a paw and helped him up his feet.

“Ah, no harm done,” Snufkin muttered, wincing at the soreness in his back. He brushed the dust off his shirt and readjusted the cuffs of his sleeves.

Moomintroll stared at him. Rather blatantly. It really wasn’t like him to be so rude.

“Is something wrong?”

Moomintroll jumped.

“I forget you see in the dark so well,” he muttered, and then cleared his throat. “You look different without your coat.”

“I suppose I’m rarely seen without it,” he said, taking no real offense, “but it’s much too hot today, even for me. Especially with all the running around I’ve been doing.”

“Just as well it’s nice and cold down here,” he replied, tugging again at the ruff of fur around his neck. “I swear, I’m going to have to spend all summer down here at this rate.”

“You could trim your fur,” Snufkin pointed out, brushing a stray tuft down on his shoulder.

“I tried to do that, but Pappa stopped me,” he said. “He said I should let it shed naturally. If I cut it, it might grow back curly!”

“I’m sure that would look very handsome.”

“Don’t tease!” Moomintroll snapped. “I would look stupid, and you know it.”

“You wouldn’t,” Snufkin replied, mouth curling.

“And I’d get mistaken for a snork all the time too,” he huffed, truly in one of his sillier sulks now.

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“Because I’m a _moomin_.”

Snufkin couldn’t help himself.

“Would it be better than being mistaken for a hippo all the time?”

“Get out of my house.”

Snufkin chuckled, the movement hurting his sore chest. Although Moomintroll’s face remained stern, his ears wiggled in amusement.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” Moomintroll said easily, taking the cranberry juice from his paws. “Is this for storage? I can’t read the label properly.”

“No, no. It’s cranberry juice. That lot outside have demanded wine, but I see no reason to waste Mamma’s good stock,” Snufkin said, and picked up the funnel. “I was going to just funnel this into an empty bottle or two and serve that. They’d never know the difference.”

Moomintroll beamed at him.

“See. You're clever.”

“Only a little, and only sometimes,” Snufkin said, as pleased as he was embarrassed. “Help me find a bottle, will you.”

Moomintroll followed him down into the cellar, one paw on his shoulder, until Snufkin found a lantern sitting disused among the bottles and boxes, lighting it with a spare match tucked into his trouser pocket. One should always have some way to light a fire on them.

Moomintroll crouched to dig around in the wine rack, eventually pulling out a couple of bottles that were almost completely empty.

“I never understand why Pappa bothers to put bottles back with so little in them,” he said, pulling out the cork of one and draining the dregs from the bottom.

“Don’t complain. It works for us right now,” Snufkin replied, draining the other. Moomintroll looked across at him, expression suddenly mischievous.

“Feels like we’re sneaking drinks.”

“I don’t think it’s sneaking if your parents would let us have them anyway,” he replied. “Besides, we’re old enough to buy it for ourselves.”

“Sssh, don’t spoil it!,” Moomintroll said, flicking him with his tail and grinning at him as though they were in on a secret. “It’s not as fun if it’s allowed.”

“That, we entirely agree on,” Snufkin said, feeling as though he’d had much more than a single mouthful of wine. He plucked the funnel up from the ground. “Hold this in place while I pour.”

If Moomintroll recognised that was not in the a two-person job, he didn’t say anything. Dutifully, he held the funnel in place in the spout of the bottle as Snufkin hauled the bottle of cranberry juice above it, pouring slowly. For a while, the gentle noise of the juice hitting the funnel and then splashing against the glass of the bottle was the only noise between them.

Snufkin stole a look at Moomintroll. The dim light from the lantern cast a flickering orange pall over his fur, highlighting the many layers of it. It looked almost like a fire itself, with that warm light washing over it.

It really was longer and thicker than Snufkin had ever seen it.

“Were you awake all winter?” he asked quietly. Moomintroll glanced up quickly, and then looked back at his paws.

“Almost,” he replied quietly.

“Almost?”

“I slept a little,” he said.

Snufkin looked at him, the uncharacteristic melancholy in his eyes.

“How was it?” he asked softly.

Moomintroll was silent a long time.

“Winter here is so dark,” he said eventually. “It’s hard to imagine until you see it.”

Snufkin shivered at the thought. There were many reasons he left Moominvalley as the weather began to turn. For him, it wasn’t the darkness – he could see well enough in the dark, it barely made a difference. It was the bleakness of the Moominvalley winter he couldn’t abide. How empty and quiet the valley was, without the chirp of crickets or flutter of birds. He couldn’t stand the vast greyness of it. Not until the daffodils started to break through, at least.

“It must have been difficult…”

They were speaking quietly, as one did in the dark, even when they was no reason for it. Moomintroll’s thumb brushed against the edge of the funnel.

“It wasn’t all bad,” he said. “I had some company, at least.”

“I know,” Snufkin said, smiling. “I met the Bookseller yesterday.”

“I was hoping you’d meet her! As soon as I met her, I thought right away ‘This is someone Snufkin would like’.”

“You know me terribly well.”

“Oh, but…ah, now I don’t get to introduce you!” he said, huffing. “I was rather looking forward to seeing you meet her for the first time.”

“Well, if you’d like to introduce us, I can pretend to have forgotten her entirely,” Snufkin replied. Moomintroll laughed.

“Perhaps I should go around introducing you to everyone in the valley like that.”

“Now why would you do that, you silly troll?”

Moomintroll didn’t answer that, just ducked his head down, smiling sheepishly to himself.

“I’m glad they were here, though,” he continued quietly, fingers curling. “The Bookseller and Dorothy. And Too-Ticky, and some of the other people who turn up over winter. But you can’t always – well, sometimes you can’t leave the house at all.”

There was something distant in his voice that Snufkin didn’t know if he could reach.

“I’m sorry,” Snufkin said, although he wasn’t sure for what. Moomintroll shook his head.

“It wasn’t all bad,” he said. “I read a lot. That was nice.”

At the mention of the book, the fur on the back of Snufkin’s neck stood on end. Moomintroll took a breath and looked up, and Snufkin had the horrible foreboding sense that Moomintroll was about to ask him something. It had been sitting there, like a stone in his gut, the idea that Moomintroll _knew_. That somehow or another, he knew what he was reading and who wrote it and who so much of it was _about_.

After much too long, Moomintroll finally asked:

“What happened to you this spring anyway?”

Snufkin sagged.

Strangely, it felt a great deal more like disappointment than relief.

“Next bottle,” he said softly, putting the cranberry juice down. Moomintroll forced the cork back into the neck of the wine bottle, not looking away from him the whole time.

He set the bottle down on the floor with a soft _clink_.

“I think you should tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Snufkin asked, stomach tensing.

“What actually happened over your winter,” Moomintroll said, taking the next wine bottle and turning it in his paws, smoothing his fingers over the surface. “It’s not fair, you know. How I tell you so much, and you tell me so little.”

“You choose to tell me so much,” he said.

“I tell you because I want to,” Moomintroll replied. “And I think you want to tell me, too.”

“Oh, so you assume to know what I want?” Snufkin snapped.

“Of course I don’t _know_,” he said gently,_ “_but I’d be a lousy friend if I didn’t at least have a guess.”

They fell silent again. Snufkin took the next empty bottle and set it down, letting Moomintroll pop the funnel into place. He started pouring again.

“I can’t make you tell me anything. And you’re not _obliged_ to,” Moomintroll said after a moment, “but if you wanted to, I’d very much like to listen. That’s all.”

Snufkin looked down at his paws, tapping against the bottle of cranberry juice, and tried to drum up the righteous anger he’d felt before. It was far too difficult, in the dark by the lantern’s flickering light, with Moomintroll speaking so carefully and quietly.

“It’s not an interesting story.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’ll find it interesting,” Moomintroll replied. “It just matters if you want to tell it.”

Oh, he was _irritatingly_ sweet sometimes. Snufkin kept his gaze on the soft, familiar shape of Moomintroll’s paws, glowing almost yellow in the gentle light.

“I got trapped, that’s all.”

Moomintroll jostled the funnel, splashing wine on both of them.

“Trapped!?”

“It was nothing,” Snufkin said, shaking his head. “I was careless. I stopped watching so carefully and a snowstorm snuck up on me.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing! That sounds awful!”

“It was manageable,” he said quickly. “Although it did slow my return. And I am sorry for that.”

“You’re not on a schedule!” Moomintroll said with a laugh. “I can’t hold you responsible for every moment I miss you. And it’s nice to miss you, sometimes. I would hate to ever take you for granted.”

“You give me _far_ too much credit.”

“I give you exactly the right amount of credit! For instance, sometimes it’s nice to miss you because you’re a pain in the butt,” he said, and then smiled at Snufkin’s shocked laugh. “But only rarely.”

“Well, I’m glad. I know it makes you sad though…” Snufkin said, and trailed off, because he didn’t want to try and make promises he couldn’t keep. There was nothing to say. Snufkin needed to leave and be alone and there was no compromising on that, no matter how much it hurt Moomintroll. To his surprise, Moomintroll only gave him a self-depreciating little smile.

“Oh, it does. But I can manage. I know I get silly,” he said, “and everyone thinks it’s just because I miss you but that’s – that’s not really it.”

“It’s not?” he asked.

“It’s very annoying, actually, everyone acting like I’m just being a drama queen,” he said. “When I think the problem is nobody else taking it seriously enough…”

Snufkin looked up at him, but Moomintroll’s gaze was set on the bottle, an odd expression on his face that Snufkin didn’t know how to read.

“It’s worry, really,” Moomintroll said quietly. “I know everyone says you always come out on top and you would always say you can take care of yourself –“

“I _can_ take care of myself!”

“I _know_, Snuf. But nobody should have to take care of themselves _all the time_,” he said. “All it takes is one accident, or illness, or one villain fast enough to catch you, or one ruthless enough to take advantage of your kindness and…”

He shook his head, as though saying any of it aloud would be too horrible to bear. He looked at Snufkin again, shoulders tense and gaze soft.

“I just wish you could be comfortable and safe and happy all the time.”

“That’s unrealistic,” Snufkin blurted out immediately.

“I know that!”

“No, I mean that – sometimes one must allow themselves to be unsafe and uncomfortable in order to be happy, don’t you think?” he said. Moomintroll glanced up at him, something familiar flickering across his face.

Yes, that was something Moomintroll understood better than most. Few people realised it, but Moomintroll would be no happier trapped forever in Moominhouse than Snufkin would be. It had never been said, but Snufkin knew as sure as he knew anything. One day, Moomintroll would want to leave.

“I know,” Moomintroll said, softly. “I just mean that…I would cope without seeing you, if only I knew you were safe and well.”

Snufkin didn’t know what to say to that. He was just glad Moomintroll couldn’t see in the dark.

“You know, people underestimate you sometimes, Moomintroll,” he said finally.

“Snufkin…”

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” he said quickly. “Simply that people do not quite recognise how clever you are, or how mature you can be, or –“

“Snufkin.”

“Oh, you know I’m not very good at saying kind things –“

“No, I mean,” Moomintroll said, and gestured to where the cranberry juice was filling the funnel, spilling out of the sides. Snufkin hissed half a swear-word (to Moomintroll’s surprise and delight) and righted the bottle. Unfortunately, he did so much too quickly, slopping more juice everywhere.

“Oh dear. I’m sorry, Moomintroll. Your fur will stain,” Snufkin said. Poor Moomintroll’s paws were covered in cranberry juice at this point. It couldn’t be easy to get that out of white fur, especially with it as thick and long as it was. Moomintroll may be good at pretending otherwise, but he was almost as proud of his fur as Snorkmaiden was.

To his surprise, however, Moomintroll didn’t look in the least concerned. He just shot Snufkin a sly look.

“What –“

Before Snufkin could react, Moomintroll darted forward and planted a paw on his chest, pushing him back.

“Moomintroll!” he squawked.

“There!” he said and retracted his arm, leaving a red paw-print behind. “Your shirt is ruined now too. We can call it even.”

Moomintroll corked the other bottle, smiling at him over his shoulder. Snufkin tried desperately to look as though his heart rate hadn’t just tripled.

“That’s fair enough,” Snufkin said, laughing shakily. “We’ve been down here much too long at this point. I shall have to take these up.”

“No, no. You’ve done enough running around. I’ll take them out,” he said, snatching the other bottle from him. Snufkin would protest, but he really was sore, especially after taking such a catastrophic tumble down the stairs. He just smiled and picked up the lantern, leading them back up the stairs.

Outside, the rabble were shouting for wine. Oh dear. They had left them much too long.

“Urgh, I better hurry!” Moomintroll said, and rushed out the door, almost stumbling on his own tail.

After taking a second to compose himself, Snufkin drifted back towards the kitchen. He looked down at the berry-dark stain on his shirt, picking at it idly.

“Honestly, we’ve been waiting for wine for an _age_, Mrs Moomin!”

“We’ll serve it soon enough. There’s plenty to drink in the meantime, the boys are –“

“I don’t care about what those boys are doing!”

He froze at the door, peeking the crack. De Hemulton was standing in the kitchen, so tall the top of his coiffed head brushed the ceiling. Mamma had been put in the corner of the room, out of view of the window. De Hemulton was making it impossible for her to leave without bumping up against him. She was shrinking further and further into the corner, as though she couldn’t even bear to brush up against his fur.

“Your son is too old to play with the servants, anyway!” De Hemulton spat.

“Snufkin isn’t our _servant_,” she said sharply, snapping upright. “Mr De Hemulton, that is –“

“Sir! It’s _Sir_ De Hemulton, may I remind you, ma’am, that I have a _knighthood_!” he bellowed, slamming his fist against the counter. Mamma’s eyes went wide and she fell silent, shrinking again. Snufkin felt like his entire body had turned cold and hollow with the shock of it, and he couldn’t convince his limbs to move even an inch.

“After waiting _all morning_ for my bread. Now you can’t even serve a bottle of wine quickly! Really, what kind of hosting is this,” De Hemulton continued.

“Baking bread takes time,” Mamma said in a small, trembling voice.

“Nonsense! Whenever I ask for bread, my staff brings some out immediately! You’re just sloppy!” he said. “It’s no wonder your husband is so restless.”

Snufkin slammed the door open. De Hemulton’s fur instantly went on end and he whirled around, face pale. Yet the second he saw Snufkin his fur flattened down and he sneered.

“Ah, it’s just the snufkin,” he muttered. Snufkin wished he had something clever or cutting to say, but cold fury had choked the voice right out of him. He just glowered.

A glare from a little snufkin meant nothing to someone like De Hemulton. All he did was scoff.

“Well. I see what was keeping the wine now,” he said, smirking at the pawprint on Snufkin's shirt. Snorting, he shoved Snufkin aside, hard enough to ram Snufkins’ back painfully against the door handle, before returning to the party.

After a stunned moment, Mamma made a quiet noise and buried her face in her arm.

“Mamma,” Snufkin said, rushing over to her. To his surprise, she waved him away.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she murmured, rubbing at her eyes.

“He’s awful,” Snufkin said, because what else was there to say, really.

“Now, now. We don’t talk that way about guests,” she said, sniffing.

“I have a handkerchief somewhere, hold on,” he said. He went to where his coat was hanging on the back of the door, digging in his pockets until he found his little handkerchief. She took it, still hiding much of her face from him.

“You’re doing a splendid job,” he said. “You always do. He’s just a bully –“

“No, no. I’m sorry dear. Really, being silly, was being slow today," she said, and blew her nose. “Now, you – I’ll just finish off something in here, you run off now.”

Sensing that he was being dismissed, Snufkin left the room. Outside, De Hemulton roared with laughter.

Something snapped in his chest. Teeth gritted, he charged towards the front door, arms fizzing with electricity. Suddenly, he did not care that De Hemulton was so much bigger than him.

Just as he was about to go outside, a weight dropped onto the rim of his hat, and Little My’s face appeared in front of him, hanging upside down.

“Someone’s in a mood,” she said, grinning. When he didn’t reply, she bounced off her hat and landed in front of him, putting her paws against his stomach, blocking his path.

“What are you doing?” he asked, surprised by the amount of strength in her little paws.

“Stopping you from getting yourself thrown in jail,” she said.

“I’ll dig myself back out,” he said, and tried to push past her. She shoved him back.

“Yeah, what’s _left_ of you. Besides, what good will just smacking him do?” Little My said. “Think for a second. What are we dealing with? A big villain, or a small villain?”

“_Small_,” Snufkin snarled. Little My nodded.

“That’s right,” she said, as though soothing a wild animal. “And you know the thing about I like best about small villains? They break the loveliest when you’re _clever_ about it. So stop charging about like a bull in a china shop and _think_.”

“Right. Right,” he said, and breathed in. “Of course you’re right, Little Mymble.”

“I always am.”

“Then, what shall we do?” he said, folding his arms in thought.

Little My tapped the side of her nose.

“Let me continue my investigations. I’ve got the scent of something fishy, and for once it’s not you,” she said. “Meanwhile, there’s a fat fluffy somebody who is tangling with the villain without a care.”

There was a high, tinkling laugh from outside.

“Snorkmaiden,” Snufkin said, eyes going wide.

“The very same. Her plan with the old fraud seems to be going well, you know,” she said.

Oh dear.

As capable as Snorkmaiden was, nobody was safe against such a horrible man alone.

There was interference, yes, but then there was just letting one’s friends dive headfirst into danger.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said.

“You better,” she said, and then shouted after him as he went: “And don’t let your pride get in the way!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Little My hadn't stopped him Snufkin would have just gotten his little baby-faced ass kicked. You really think Moominvalley!Snufkin looks like a guy who would fare well in a fight.


	3. Act Three: Our hero finally sorts himself out.

Mimsy was hard work.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected it. He had an _artistic temperament_ after all. It was just one thing to imagine being in a whirlwind romance with a difficult and unknowable man, and another to actually deal with such a fellow.

It was natural, Snorkmaiden supposed, that his eye would wander to other girls even when they were deep in conversation. As a poet, he was a great admirer of beauty and the other ladies at the party _were_ lovely. And they seemed bright! It would be nice to chat to them, but she didn’t have the time if she wanted to render Mimsy thoroughly entranced.

At the least, he was a _little_ entranced. A fellow didn’t keep finding excuses to touch you unless they were at least a tiny bit interested. He even called her _beautiful _and fetched her a glass of wine (well, he ordered Moomintroll to get her one, which she supposed was good enough).

The wine was blatantly cranberry juice, but Mimsy and his friends did not seem to notice. She decided it was perhaps some obscure literary jape and went along with it. They sat at the biggest table, surrounded by Mimsy’s literary agent and editor and his glamorous and intelligent friends, and everyone knew scandalous things about wonderful authors Snorkmaiden only knew for their work. It was so exciting, to be amongst such sophisticates and intellectuals!

She was sure Mimsy had been playing with everyone when he thought William Wordsworth was a man who owned a stationery shop.

And referring to Snufkin as the ‘house-boy’ must be another joke she didn’t quite understand.

And, naturally, he was only being incendiary when he proposed that women simply couldn’t write truly literary fiction. It was wonderfully subversive of him to be controversial for the sake of sparking argument! It was _charming_.

Snorkmaiden was sure Mimsy was simply nervous meeting her for the first time – most men were, after all. People tended to say silly things when they were nervous.

“Now Mimisy, how do you always end up with such lovely creatures around you?” one man said to De Hemulton, giving Snorkmaiden an appraising look she tried her best to enjoy.

“Oh, you know, it’s as the saying goes. Publishing a book of first-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible to lovely women,” De Hemulton said, laughing.

“That’s not the quote,” she said softly. On two rather fundamental levels, that was not the quote.

The two men ignored her, diving into a fascinatingly incorrect discussion about the man they misquoted.

Snorkmaiden supposed she could have misremembered it herself.

Suddenly, she became aware that Mimsy had just said something for her and was waiting for her response, like a dog for a bone. She had no idea what he said, so she went with the safest bet she had and laughed as charmingly as she could.

That seemed to be the right response, because he beamed at her, eyes sparkling as he sipped at his ‘wine’.

“Oh, you _are_ delightful, Snorkmaiden,” he said. “You have such a splendid sense of humour!”

“Well, it’s not difficult when I’ve got such a talented comedian in front of me,” she purred.

(There was a gagging noise from under the table. Snorkmaiden gave Little My a firm kick.)

“And you’re so clever,” he said. She glowed under the praise.

“Oh, hardly!”

“No, no, you’re clearly a bright girl,” he said, and leaned towards her, stroking a finger along the rim of his wine glass. “You know what I think I like best about you, though?”

She fluttered her eyelashes, resting her cheek on her paw.

“Oh, I couldn't even fathom a guess.”

(She could: it was probably her hair. Her hair was _exceptional_.)

“It’s that you are so willing to laugh, even though it makes your large nose bob so!” he said.

Snorkmaiden cracked the glass in her paw.

“Yes, it’s just so charming when a lady isn’t self-conscious of her flaws,” he continued, nodding to himself.

“My nose?” she muttered, touching the end of her snout.

“Why yes, darling,” he said. “I could write a twenty-stanza ballad on its beauty! And I would still have room left on it to write more.”

Snorkmaiden opened and closed her mouth, quite unable to reply. After a second, she forced herself to laugh.

Chuckling at his own joke, Mimsy reached into the pocket of his dress and fished out a cigar case, snapping it open.

“Drat, all out,” he said, and looked over at her. “Beautiful, would you be so kind as to fetch more cigars from the lady of the house? Nothing better than a pretty girl lighting your cigar for you, after all.”

“Right,” she said, the compliment landing cold and slimy against her. She stood, taking the cigar case in one paw, the other still on her snout.

Perhaps she just needed to touch up her make-up. Just a little bit. Perhaps her contour had made her snout look a little bigger than normal. She had done it very quickly, after all.

She rushed off to the bathroom, one paw still over her snout. On the way, she passed Snufkin. He was being cornered by those chatty old women, all of them asking if he had a girlfriend and if he wouldn’t meet their granddaughters. Waste of time for the poor dears if Snorkmaiden had ever known one.

“Snorkmaiden!” he shouted, clearly hoping for a rescue. She paid him no heed. He could indulge a bunch of silly old ladies who wanted to talk to a nice young man for a few minutes, surely. She dashed into the house and up the stairs, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

She looked at her reflection, checking her make-up, tilting her snout this way and that. She had been certain she looked nothing short of stunning when she finished this morning, but her nose _was_ rather large. And weren’t her eyes a little small for her face? And one ear was shorter than the other, she had never liked that.

“Perhaps just a little powder,” she said, snatching up her make-up bag from the cabinet. “And some fake eye-lashes, to draw the eye upwards.”

False eyelashes were a great pain, even for someone as skilled with make-up as she was. After her fifth attempt, she had managed to get the first set of eyelashes to sit properly, the glue a bit heavy on her eyelid. She had just peeled the second set from its casing when the door slammed open.

“Snorkmaiden!” Snufkin called.

She jumped, dropping the eyelash in the sink.

“Snufkin! Don’t just barge into the bathroom! What if I had been on the toilet?” she squeaked. “I know _you_ don’t use indoor bathrooms, but the rest of us prefer a little privacy!”

“Snorkmaiden,” he said, ignoring her concerns completely, “we need to talk.”

Snorkmaiden’s eye was drawn to the cranberry stain on his shirt. The very _paw-shaped_ cranberry stain on his shirt.

Oh dear. She turned away for just a minute, and of course some kind of drama happened.

As much as she had other things to worry about, the potential gossip was irresistible.

“Perhaps we should. Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the toilet. Downstairs, a glass shattered and Moomintroll spluttered apologies.

Snufkin hopped onto the toilet and folded his arms, taking a deep meditative breath. Snorkmaiden mentally ran through what she’d planned to say to Snufkin after he inevitably found out about Moomintroll’s infatuation.

Finally, he spoke:

“You absolutely cannot pursue De Hemulton any further.”

“Oh _honestly_!” she burst out. “That’s what this is all about?”

“I’m very serious, Snorkmaiden,” he said.

“Really, Snufkin. This is silly, you just don’t like his poetry!” she said, taking out another set of eyelashes. “You haven’t even spoken to him.”

“I don’t need to, I –“

“Oh yes, he’s a bit difficult, but really. Such an accomplished man will be difficult! And his writing is sweet, even if you’re too prickly to appreciate it,” she said, delicately applying a line of glue to the lashes.

“It is _not_ sweet,” he said hotly.

“It is. And isn’t it fantastic, that he managed to whip up such a frenzy about a poetry collection?” she said, smiling. “And he writes so dotingly, he must be a good suitor, so –“

“Stars, Snorkmaiden, he didn’t even write it!”

“Don’t be silly. Just because he has editors doesn’t mean it isn’t his work,” she said, taking the lashes between her tweezers and trying to get them to lie right. “You’re such a purist.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“This is just like your Kerouac phase…”

“He didn’t write it at all! _I did!_”

Snorkmaiden poked herself in the eye.

“What?” she said, turning to stare at him as best she could with one watering eye.

“I – I wrote it,” he said, face pale. “De Hemulton must have picked up my scribblings from wherever I dumped them and decided to take advantage of it.”

He trailed off, suddenly looking as small as he had the first time they met.

For a second, she thought this was perhaps some kind of joke. Yet Snufkin looked as though he hadn’t wanted to say it at all. Like it had just burst out of him after so long wrapped up, startling him just as much as her.

Suddenly, everything made a great deal of sense. Snufkin's odd, angry responses to the poetry. The wiggling dissonance between De Hemulton’s writings, and the man himself. The familiarity she’d felt upon reading it. And how much Moomintroll simply _doted_ on the little collection, reading it so often it was like he was trying to push himself through the pages, right into the author’s words.

And then there was the muse. A white-furred troll, described beautifully, someone he’d known almost his entire life –

Oh no.

This was the _worst_ possible outcome. As she met his eye, poor Snufkin’s face turned bright red, only confirming her fear. Her stomach felt like it would drop out of her body, and for a mad moment she thought, very vividly, about climbing through the bathroom window and running away, never to be seen again.

“Oh, it makes sense now,” she said softly. Snufkin only nodded, looking as though he’d like to fold into himself and disappear. Her heart ached for him.

“I have to admit, I’m surprised. I rather thought your inclinations lay elsewhere,” she continued, trying to be as delicate as she could. He nodded, face almost green now. He didn’t seem to be hearing her at all, just continued staring at the wall behind her.

“Oh, Snufkin,” she said. “I can’t say I’m not _flattered_ –“

“What?” Snufkin said, more burping the word than saying it.

“Oh, I am, I really am!” she said frantically. “But I simply _can’t _reciprocate.”

“What?” he repeated in the exact same tone.

“I don’t mean any offense, but – oh, you’ll just always be that odd little boy with a tummy ache I met one day,” she said, shaking her head. “The one who trailed after Snork and I for days after one kind gesture...”

“I hardly trailed,” Snufkin mumbled.

Snorkmaiden gasped, clapping her paws to her cheeks.

“Oh, it was then, wasn’t it! Oh, you’ve been in love with me for that long! I’m so sorry Snufkin, but I simply can’t think of you that way!” she said, waving the tweezers madly around. She had never had to reject someone she _cared_ about before. It was horrible! No wonder people got so upset!

“And even if I could,” she continued, frantic, “there’s Moomintroll to think of, don’t you see, I –“

Snufkin was curled in on himself, shaking furiously, and oh, she hadn’t seen him cry in _years_. This was awful!

Then he lifted his head, and to her great surprise he was soundlessly wheezing with laughter, clutching his stomach.

“I’m sorry Snorkmaiden,” he rasped. “I cannot take this seriously with your eyes like that.”

She glanced at herself in the mirror – one eye long-lashed and alien-like, the other perfectly normal. It made her look like a half-drawn painting.

“Oh, of all the things to point out!” she said, fur turning red. “Well, aren’t you taking rejection well!”

That only seemed to set him off more. He leaned his head back against the wall, laughing louder than she’d ever heard him.

“Are you _quite_ done?” she said. She was so annoyed that it almost _was_ like having a boyfriend again. What kind of person wrote so much love poetry and then laughed at their muse’s unfinished make-up! Really!

“I’m sorry, I –“ he trailed off and then cleared his throat. “Snorkmaiden, it’s not you.”

“It’s not?”

“No, I’m sorry, but –”

“Oh thank _goodness_!”

“Well, there’s no need to be that relieved.”

“But then, who? Surely you don’t have some secret lady friend – no, wait, it’s a lady you see in spring – _no_,” she said, and then her eyes widened. “Not _Mamma_, surely!”

“Snorkmaiden! Good grief!” he said, definitely turning green now. “No! De Hemulton changed the pronouns, for goodness sakes!”

“Ah. That makes much more sense. Then –“ she said, and then smirked.

Oh, it was the _best_ possible outcome after all!

“Don’t,” he said severely.

“Oh _Snufkin_,” she said, paws over her mouth. “Who knew you were such a _softie_?”

“Moving on,” he said quickly. Snorkmaiden only grinned wider. Snufkin ignored her.

“My point was,” he said, clearing his throat, which did little to stop how red his face was, “De Hemulton is a fraud and a charlatan, and not worth your time.”

“I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. It was somewhat of a relief.

Yet De Hemulton kept such _splendid_ company. Surely she could pursue him a _little _bit. She hardly needed to marry the fellow to get a few fun and useful things out of him.

Snufkin must have seen something in her expression, because he then delivered the final blow:

“And he made Mamma cry.”

“He did _what_!”

“This is what I mean,” he said, raising his paws. “He is a terrible villain. I would not like to see you hurt by him.”

“Truly! And here I was fetching his cigars for him!” she said furiously. “Oh, I’ll get him a cigar, and I’ll shove it right up his –“

“I’m sure we share the same sentiment,” Snufkin interrupted, “but he is a villain with far more supporters than us. We cannot simply give him a good thrashing.”

“Then you should tell everyone!” she said, bunching her paws into fists. “Tell them you wrote it, and that he is a thief!”

The colour vanished out of Snufkin’s face.

“No,” he said, mouth drawn in a tight line.

“Come now, you silly old thing, don’t you want credit for your work?” she said.

“No,” he said, even more firmly. “If anything, this whole fiasco has made me very certain of the fact.”

Normally, Snorkmaiden would struggle to believe anyone could _really_ hate the whole idea so much. After all, who didn’t love to be admired for what they were good at? She’d love for any of her work to receive such acclaim!

Yet he looked so ill at the thought, and so small and so tired. He gave so little of himself, and what little he gave he gave incredibly carefully and thoughtfully. To have it wrenched out of his paws and given thoughtlessly, to anyone at all in whatever quantity they wanted, must have felt like an awful violation.

Yes, revealing the real identity of the author was out of the question. She wouldn’t ponder it a second longer.

“Alright,” she said, much more gently. “Then what do you suppose we do?”

“Well, Little My was up to something, but she’s as forthcoming with the details of her schemes as she ever is,” he said, leaning back against the toilet basin. “And I’ve barely had a second to think about it, running around helping Mamma.”

“I still can’t _believe_ I missed you waiting tables,” she said. “I’d love to see that.”

“You shan’t ever get the chance again,” he said. She laughed, peeling off the fake eyelashes. They made one’s eyes sting anyway.

“Perhaps I could convince him to admit he’s a fraud,” Snorkmaiden said. “Give him _real_ wine, instead of cranberry juice.”

“I feel his agent would intervene,” Snufkin said, putting his paw on his chin. “Besides, he seems the type to become…difficult, when drunk.”

Snorkmaiden grimaced. True enough – anyone who made Mamma cry while sober would become very unpleasant to deal with after a few drinks. They couldn’t risk anyone getting hurt.

“It would be a simple thing, perhaps, if we had the original notebook,” Snufkin muttered into his paw. “He would rather be seen as a fraud than an invert, after all.”

“Snufkin!” she scolded, not at all pleased to hear him refer to himself with such a horrid word.

“It doesn’t reflect on me in the least,” he said, shrugging. “I’m only saying what such a vile man would think.”

“He’s right, you know,” piped up a sharp voice. Snorkmaiden turned to see Little My leaning against the doorway, arms folded, scowling even more terribly than ever.

“You had the same thought?” Snufkin said.

“Almost immediately,” she said, hopping onto the sink. She grabbed a bar of soap and took a bite out of it, chewing thoughtfully.

“So _that’s_ what you’ve been ferreting around looking for!” Snorkmaiden said.

“Yeah. I thought the old fraud might be stupid enough to keep hold of it,” she said, burping a soap bubble into the air. “No dice. Turned up a _lot_ of other interesting evidence, but I haven’t gotten my paws on the smoking gun.”

“And there’s no exposing a crime without that,” Snufkin said. They fell silent, all thinking carefully about where the book could be.

Outside, there was the sound of another glass shattering, Moomintroll apologising, and Mimsy’s too-loud roar of laughter. Snorkmaiden bristled with irritation, both at Mimsy and at herself, for being taken in by his charm and back-handed compliments and dizzying name-dropping.

It was funny, how someone like that couldn’t know a single thing about anything good or interesting, but knew exactly how to trick people into wanting to please them.

“It’s no good,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s stupid, but he’s cunning; he would have destroyed the original. We need another idea.”

“There’s always my mushrooms,” Little My said.

“No, little Merricat,” Snorkmaiden said. “We couldn’t make certain nobody else ate any.”

“Hmph, I suppose.”

“Snufkin, do you have any ideas?”

Snufkin had that quiet, far-eyed look on his face he had when he was thinking very carefully about something. He was silent for a long while.

Quite suddenly, he hopped off the toilet, eyes very bright.

“Snorkmaiden, may I have a threepence, please?” he said.

“Oh good, he’s went mad,” Little My said cheerfully. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“A threepence?” Snorkmaiden repeated, startled – Snufkin had never asked her for money once in the long time they’d known one another. “Well, of course, but why?”

“I’d rather not explain,” he said. “Unlikely things only become more unlikely if you talk about them.”

“Must you always be so obtuse,” she said with a sigh. He only looked at her, face determined. Well, whatever his idea was, she didn’t need to know the details.

“Alright, let me fetch my purse.”

****

A gold threepenny clutched in his paw, Snufkin made his way out to the woods, following the sound of a scratchy gramophone. He really hadn’t the faintest idea if this would work, but one could only know for sure by giving it a go.

The Bookseller’s cart was moored by the river today, the Bookseller herself lounging out on a stool by the shore, tossing breadcrumbs out of a paper bag into the water, where the fish rose greedily to the surface. A plump green apple and a half-eaten chocolate bar sat on the ground beside her. She gave him a lazy wave as he approached, paper bag of crumbs clutched in her paw.

“Afternoon, kiddo,” she said. “Lovely day. Terrible shame about the tourists.”

“Yes, quite,” he said briefly. “Is Dorothy about?”

Dorothy’s little head popped out of the apple, antennae wiggling in greeting.

“I’d like to buy my book now, please,” he said. The Bookseller glanced down at the little coin clutched in his paw and stood, stuffing the paper bag into one of her many pockets.

“Jolly good, follow me,” she replied, not sounding in a slightest surprised. She went back into the cart and went behind the counter.

“If we could be quick about it,” Snufkin said.

“No,” she said.

There was no arguing with that.

Fizzing with impatience, he watched her go behind the counter and bring out a little green moneybox, unfastening the brass clasp. Dorothy followed her, bouncing from book to book in that funny way of hers. On the counter, she looked up at Snufkin, wiggling her tail in an imploring way. He stared at her.

“You’ll need to pay first,” the Bookseller said.

“Oh, of course,” he said, and placed the little threepence between her antennae. She popped it in the moneybox and then bounced off, disappearing amid the stacks. The Bookseller gave him a curious look, gaze flicking across his sweaty clothes and the cranberry stains and the tense expression on his face, but she didn’t say anything. She only prepared him another small cup of coffee and gestured at a stack of books for him to take from.

After a few minutes with no sign of Dorothy returning, he grabbed a novella. He drained the cup. She refilled it. The sun began to set. Snufkin began to drum his fingers on the countertop.

“She’s usually quicker than this,” the Bookseller remarked, and slipped him another biscuit.

As Snufkin turned to the final page of his book, Dorothy re-emerged. Over her head, she carried a slim green exercise book held in her antennae. The pages were curling, the cover unmarked but for a berry-red blotch of ink, accidentally dripped at the corner. The pages had turned yellow with age, and it was a little damp, as though it had been caught out in the rain.

He took it from her, carefully, and flicked through the pages – recognising his own frantic writing from a couple of years ago, the places where he’d been slow and careful, the places where he’d just been scribbling, sometimes upset but sometimes excited. The bits he used to be proud of and the bits he used to be embarrassed by. He could almost see his younger self – a little shorter, face a little rounder and smoother – crouched in his tent, or in the branches of trees, or under bridges, writing away as though it were the most important thing he’d ever done.

The embarrassment, for a second, was washed away by something warmer and smaller. For a moment, he held a flickering fondness for his younger self, who had felt those things so intensely and cared about them so very much.

He pressed the little book to his chest.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” the Bookseller said. Snufkin looked down at Dorothy, tilting her head up at him, and offered her a smile.

“Very. Thank you very much, Dorothy,” he said. She wiggled happily at him, fur flickering gold.

“Another coffee while you read?” the Bookseller offered, as Dorothy crawled back onto her ear.

“No, thank you,” he said, getting to his feet. “I have a score to settle.”

“Sounds exciting,” she said. “Tell me how it goes.”

****

Outside of Moominhouse, the tables and chairs had been re-arranged. The tables had been pushed aside and the chairs lined up in front of the stage. More people than ever were out in front of Moominhouse, as though every resident had come along to see what the fuss was about.

Poor Moomintroll was still rushing here and there, tray of champagne glasses balanced on one paw, a platter of canapes on the other, a trail of shed fur in his wake. Mamma stood on the veranda, a little faded and subdued. Onstage, Moominpappa was regaling the audience with a story, De Hemulton standing back against the backdrop. Everyone was applauding and laughing, aside from De Hemulton himself.

“You look like you have a smoking gun in hand,” Little My said, dropping down from a tree branch.

Snufkin nodded, still clutching the exercise book a bit too tightly. Little My looked at him for a second and then thrust her paw out towards him.

“Hand it over then,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“I know you don’t want to be the one to reveal it. It’ll raise too many questions,” she said. He could have collapsed with relief.

“Thank you, Little My,” he said, handing it over.

“Shut up,” she replied.

“Is everything sorted?” Snorkmaiden said, approaching them, lifting her skirts so they didn’t trail in the mud. Little My waved the green book above her head.

“Gun in paw. Just need to fire the final shot,” she said.

“Have you two been scheming?” he asked, amused. They smirked at one another.

“Don’t you worry about anything, Snufkin,” Snorkmaiden said, with a glint in her eyes Snufkin didn’t often see. “We’ll handle it from here.”

“Better take a seat, though,” Little My said, cackling. “Don’t want to miss the main event.”

Snorkmaiden tugged him up towards the crowd. They passed Moomintroll, still carrying a tray of drinks in one paw and a drink of canapes in the other. Snufkin gave him a little wave. Moomintroll waved back, scattering canapes in the grass, prompting the old ladies to howl with delight and interrogate him about who he was waving to.

Snufkin stopped, watching Moomintroll frantically try to recover canapes.

“I think I’ll stand at the back, if it’s all the same to you,” he said, tugging his paw from Snorkmaiden’s. The crush of people in the audience looked awfully tight. Besides, if he stood he might get a chance to talk to Moomintroll, if he had a moment between his duties. Snorkmaiden and Little My looked at one another and shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” Little My said, and scampered off. Snorkmaiden only nodded at him and went to take a seat in the front row.

“…and that is how I found my beloved wife and son after that terrible flood,” Moominpappa said from the stage, finishing his story to a round of applause. Behind him, De Hemulton cleared his throat. Pappa jerked around to look at him, as though he’d entirely forgotten he was there.

“Ah, uh, of course! Well, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve listened to the ramblings of an old Moominpappa enough!” he said, turning back to the crowd. “Tonight is a very special night – we will be talking to Sir Mimsy de Hemulton, who has so kindly travelled from the big city to our humble valley.”

There was another round of applause, and much clinking of glasses.

“So, as the valley’s most esteemed and learned literary figure, I will, of course, be doing much of the interviewing. One can only expect an extremely thorough and fascinating discussion,” Pappa continued, chortling. From somewhere under the stage, Snufkin thought he heard Little My scoffing. Pappa ignored it, flourishing his paw. “But first, we will open with a reading from the man himself!”

De Hemulton stepped forward, drinking in the applause and the whooping and the cameras flashing from every angle, swilling his champagne.

“Thank you so much for being here. As someone with a humble beginning as the third son of only a middling lord, it is such an honour to speak to such an adoring and well-established crowd,” De Hemulton said, pushing Moominpappa behind him. He paused. His agent cleared her throat and the crowd began to applaud again, prompting the paparazzi to take more photos.

“So brave, so brave!” the creep with the earpiece said.

“And so very modest!” one of the younger women said.

Snufkin hoped Snorkmaiden and Little My’s plan would kick in sooner rather than later. He wasn’t sure how much of this he could tolerate.

“Yes, thank you _all_,” De Hemulton said. “Now, I shall open with a reading of _Summer Swallows_, which I wrote on my two weeks fasting in the Icy Desert.”

He cleared his throat, paw diving into the pocket of his purple dress. And then his other pocket. And then his back pocket. And then back to his first.

“Ah, uh,” he said. “I appear to have – misplaced my copy. Haha! We renaissance men do tend to be scatter-brained! Mr Moomin, if you would kindly loan me –“

“Oh, _Mimsy_,” Snorkmaiden piped up, in a voice sweet enough to make one’s teeth stick together, “how lucky that this is no problem for you! After all, you were just telling me how you have a photographic memory.”

“Oh, ah. Did I say that?” De Hemulton said.

“Oh, yes, he said that to me too!” one of the younger women piped up.

“He never needed to study in university, you know,” another woman said. “He said he would take one look of a book and memorise it, cover to cover!”

“How lucky we are,” Snorkmaiden continued, “to have a reading directly from your _brilliant_ mind.”

“Ah yes, uh, of course,” De Hemulton said, brow shining. “So, yes, _Summer Swallows_…ahem! Ahem-hem-hem! A…hem-hem-hem-he-“

“_Get on with it!”_ Little My shouted from below the stage.

“Ah, right! So, uh…” De Hemulton said. “_Some swallows from the cup of your palm –_“

“That’s not right at all.”

Moomintroll, now standing upright, looked as though he hadn’t intended to speak. As the crowd turned to look at him, he turned horribly red.

“Pardon me?” De Hemulton said.

“Um. That not how it goes,” Moomintroll said quietly, glancing from De Hemulton to Moominpappa and finally to Snufkin. “It’s _‘Two nesting swallows cupped soft in your palm_’. The birds. Not the verb.”

Moomintroll’s tail twitched, as though he wanted terribly badly to pull on it.

“He’s right,” said one man in the crowd, flicking through his own purple book.

“Well!” De Hemulton said, with an attempt at good cheer. “Even the wait staff are fans of mine, apparently! Good ear, lad. Of course, just a little joke.”

The little creep with the earpiece laughed loudly, prompting the rest of the crowd to imitate it, an awkward, rippling sound. Moominpappa didn’t laugh at all. He just stared at De Hemulton’s back, brow furrowing.

“So, ah, that little bit of comedy over,” De Hemulton continued. “Let us read from _Camelias_ instead:

_Camelias bloom by weather’s turn –_“

“_Camelias bloom only as seasons turn,”_ Moomintroll interrupted.

“He’s right again!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Don’t interrupt, lad,” De Hemulton said, his jovial tone becoming more strained. “A different poem then! So, er, ah, _As daisies spring –_“

“Daffodils,” Moomintroll said.

De Hemulton did not reply to Moomintroll this time. Instead, he turned to Moominpappa, tone icy.

“Mr Moomin, can this child be removed?” he asked.

“Removed?” Moominpappa said, sounding utterly baffled by the request.

“Yes,” De Hemulton continued, and then added in a nasty tone that Snufkin did not like in the least. “Perhaps he’d like to go back to the cellar and distract himself down there again?”

“Now what is that comment –“ Pappa began.

“It’s daffodils, not daisies!” Moomintroll shouted, snout turning red. “Surely writing about them so often, you’d remember that!”

“He’s right,” one of the crowd said.

“There are a _lot_ of daffodils in these,” another commented, flicking through her copy. Snufkin looked at Snorkmaiden, wondering if this was part of the plan, but she looked just as surprised as anyone.

“Well,” De Hemulton said, puffing up, “I can hardly be expected to remember every little line –“

“Daffodils are mentioned a lot. Daisies aren’t mentioned at all,” Moomintroll said, and then paused. He took a deep breath and ploughed on: “Someone who wrote it couldn’t possibly make a mix-up like that.”

There was a silence as the insinuation settled in.

“It is odd,” the little creep with the earpiece admitted, so quietly he couldn’t have meant for anyone to hear him.

“You’d remember your own work…surely…” someone else said.

“It’s almost like Mimsy didn’t write it all!” Snorkmaiden cried, as though she was in a courtroom drama. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Funny you should all say that.”

Little My popped up from a floorboard under De Hemulton’s foot, making him yelp and fall off the stage. She hopped onto the stage, dragging a large bag with her.

“Because _I _just found something interesting in this great oaf’s luggage,” she said.

“That is my _property_!” De Hemulton cried, scrambling back onto the stage. “Mr Moomin, get your children under control!”

“Really, so this little notebook is yours?” she said, lifting out a little black journal, holding it open so the crowd could see. “The one with all the ladies’ names and phone numbers in it?”

This released a ripple of muttering.

“Of course,” De Hemulton said.

“Can you prove it?” Little My asked.

“It’s my hand-writing, you brat, give it back,” he said, snatching for it. Little My hopped out of his grip with ease.

“Ha, guess it must be yours then! Hope Lady Whomperberry doesn’t mind you only rated her a two out of ten,” she said, prompting gasps and a flurry of photos from the paparazzi. Little My hurled the book at De Hemulton, he caught it, fumbling with the pages.

“Now, if you’re done prying into my _personal_ relationships –“ he began, but Little My just chuckled and took out another from behind her back. Snufkin’s own little green exercise book.

De Hemulton’s eyes went very wide. There was a small noise like a mouse being stepped on. It sounded awfully like it came from De Hemulton’s agent.

“So…this yours too?” Little My said.

“How did you get that?” De Hemulton asked softly.

“I looked around,” Little My said airily, flicking through the pages. De Hemulton dove for her again but Little My hopped out of the way like a little sneering ballerina.

“It’s the originals, isn’t it?” she said, landing on top of him. “Of_ your_ poetry?”

“The originals!” one person cried.

“Well, that surely will prove Mimsy wrote it!”

“How exciting, the original manuscripts!”

“Oh, do let us have a look, Mimsy!”

“My client is not at all obliged to share his earlier drafts!” De Hemulton’s agent piped up, standing up. Little My opened the book to show to the crowd, holding it above her head.

“Why, Mimsy, your handwriting is completely different there!” Snorkmaiden cried.

“My handwriting is different when I am creating!” De Hemulton cried, making another dive for Little My.

“That’s not the only thing that’s different,” Little My said, jumping out of De Hemulton’s way swiftly enough that he crashed snout-first into the stage. She tossed the book to Snorkmaiden.

“I’ll say, you’re right!” Snorkmaiden said, chewing the scenery with great relish. “These all sound like they’re about a gentleman.”

“A gentleman?”

“Then is Mimsy…”

“Not _Mimsy_, surely?” a man said, in a tone that made Snufkin privately resolve to tear up his garden later.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” De Hemulton shouted. “I wouldn’t write about a chap in such a way!”

“But then…why, Mimsy…you didn’t write this at all, did you?” Snorkmaiden continued, eyes wide with horror and betrayal. “You stole it from one of your many ladies.”

There was a gasp, and much flashing of cameras.

“No, no, I didn’t – I mean, I didn’t write it, but I didn’t – _oh_!” he said, and tugged at his purple hair. “I was certain I’d burned that blasted book!”

This caused an uproar.

“Burned it!” shouted the creep

“Why would someone _burn_ something unless they had something to hide?”

“He _did_ steal it!”

“That’s not all he’s stolen,” Little My continued, and tipped the rest of the contents of the bag onto the stage. All manner of things tipped out – many, many papers, but also jewellery and fabric and notebooks and sketches and canvases.

“Why, that’s the short story I was writing,” the little creep said, staring wide-eyed at De Hemulton. “You told me it was no good at all!”

“That’s the bracelet I made!” one of the women cried.

“That’s one of my paintings!” Moomintroll shouted.

“That’s a chapter from my memoirs!” Moominpappa bellowed, far louder than the rest. “Sir De Hemulton, I told you expressly I would not permit you taking one from my home!”

“I – I – “ De Hemulton stuttered.

“And that’s one of my designs!” Snorkmaiden cried, snatching up a piece of paper with a dress drawn on it. “I cannot believe you stole even from _me_! And that on top of making Mamma cry!”

“He did _what_?” Moomintroll and Pappa both shouted.

“Now, that is a wild accusation –“ De Hemulton attempted, but the old ladies interrupted him.

“He did!” the tallest old lady said.

“We were eavesdropping!” the second chimed in cheerfully. “And spying!”

“Saw the whole thing! Horrible man, terrible man, making the lady of the house cry!” the third said, delighted.

“What?” Moomintroll said. “If you saw it, why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“Well, if we ended the party early, we wouldn’t have handsome young men bringing us drinks, would we?” said the first old lady, winking at him.

“You three are _never_ invited back,” Moomintroll grumbled.

“Now this is – this is ridiculous,” De Hemulton said, finally getting back to his feet, lifting a paw against the camera flashes. “Mr Moomin, this is your event, I advise that you –“

“How dare you, sir!” Moominpappa cried. “You look to me for assistance, after upsetting my wife so horribly?”

“She was just being_ sensitive!_”

This was too much for Moominpappa. With an angry, wordless cry, Moominpappa leapt upon De Hemulton, flinging his fists and feet at him wildly.

“Darling no!” Mamma cried, in the same moment Little My shouted ‘Yeah, finally!’.

The crowd lurched to their feet. Moomintroll tumbled over. Champagne flutes and canapes fell to the grass, trodden underfoot as the crowd gathered around Pappa and De Hemulton.

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” they chanted, sounding more excited about this than they had about a single word of poetry. There was a booming growl that Snufkin was alarmed to think could come out of Moominpappa, and tufts of hemulen and moomin fur began flying into the fur. The crowd only whooped and shouted louder.

Snufkin looked for Moomintroll amid the chaos and found him still on the grass, crawling between everyone’s legs. Snufkin stretched out and grabbed his paw, pulled him out of the swarming mass.

Snufkin wondered if Snorkmaiden and Little My perhaps needed similar assistance, but then he saw Snorkmaiden tearing the sleeves off her dress, standing behind Moominpappa like a wrestler waiting to be tagged into a fight. Little My, perched between Snorkmaiden’s ears, only grinned at him.

They certainly didn’t seem to need his help.

Moomintroll squeezed his paw.

“Let’s get out of here,” he muttered.

“And quickly.”

****

“I don’t think my legs have _ever_ been this sore,” Moomintroll said, collapsing to the grass. They’d finally got far enough from Moominhouse they couldn’t hear De Hemulton’s agent shouting about taking them all to court. It was beginning to turn dark, the summer crickets chirping from the bushes and the fireflies beginning to emerge.

“I know how you feel,” Snufkin admitted, sinking down next to him. “Even the mountain I climbed this winter didn’t leave me so exhausted.”

“_You_ only did it for a couple of hours,” Moomintroll said. “I’ve probably got a permanent injury, carrying all those drinks and food about all day.”

“Oh come now.”

“I’ll be bedridden tomorrow,” Moomintroll said.

“How terrible,” Snufkin replied. “I shall have to play my mouth-organ for you from your veranda.”

“The _veranda_? You should be playing at my bedside!”

“I’d rather not sit inside all day,” he said seriously. “I will come for a visit on mornings and evenings. If you’d like to see me more than that, you will have to venture from your sickbed.”

“I suppose that would motivate me to get better,” Moomintroll said.

“Tough love tends to,” Snufkin replied, and immediately regretted it. Moomintroll laughed, a low, nervous noise.

“Not that tough, really,” he murmured, scratching the back of his neck. “Urgh, hold on. I think there’s something tangled in my fur again!”

“Would you like some help?” Snufkin offered. Moomintroll shook his head, tugging at the fur on the back of his neck. After a second, he managed to pull a small green book loose.

“Ah, this will be what hit the back of my head,” he said, smoothing his paws over the cover. They both froze, staring at the little book.

Snufkin had the sudden, suffocating notion that Moomintroll would open it up and start to read it. Reading De Hemulton’s version was bad enough, but the thought of Moomintroll seeing all of that in his own handwriting, nosing through the notes and the maps and the doodles and the little pressed flowers amongst them. It would be like being a butterfly pressed under a pane of glass, only able to be stared at.

Moomintroll looked at it for a long second, and then glanced briefly up at Snufkin. Although he fingers twitched, he made no move to open the book and look inside.

“I suppose I should look for the original owner,” he said, so casually he could only be choosing his words incredibly carefully.

Moomintroll was much brighter than most gave him credit for, after all.

And Snufkin, beneath all the little flourishes of metaphor and pretences of aloofness, really did love him dearly.

Perhaps, Snufkin thought, life would be simpler if he stopped tormenting himself about it. Regardless of how it turned out.

“Well,” he said, steeling himself, “you wouldn’t have to look far.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Snufkin said, thrusting out a paw. “You can give it back now, if you’d like.”

Moomintroll looked from his outstretched paw back to Snufkin’s face again. After a second, he placed the little book into Snufkin’s paw, his own arm trembling.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Snufkin said quietly.

“Well, I uh,” Moomintroll said, and then cleared his throat. “I kind of suspected.”

“Suspected?”

“Well, that’s not right, I guess,” he said, and gestured vaguely. “It just…felt like you.”

“It did?” Snufkin asked. Moomintroll laughed.

“I thought I was going mad, honestly,” he said. “I knew you would never want to publish a book, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.”

“I’d have thought you’d have been surprised by the fact I’d write anything so…sentimental,” he said sourly.

“Hm, a little but…” Moomintroll said, and then nudged him. “I was more surprised by the fact there was _free verse_ in there.”

“I only experimented with it,” he replied quickly. “And I regret it immensely.”

“After all that time telling us how you simply cannot _stand_ free verse.”

“Well, it’s _lazy_!” Snufkin burst out. “Just learn to write to a proper metre!”

It was embarrassing to lose his composure over something so silly, but Moomintroll just looked at him as though he was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. Snufkin picked at his shirt, looking down at the grass. Moomintroll’s paw, fingertips still stained red, laid between them.

“And I did write it a few years ago, you know,” Snufkin said quietly. “I’d like to think I’ve improved since…”

Moomintroll’s paw gripped the grass tighter.

“Well, uh…since we’re talking about that,” he said. “Have any of the _feelings_ from then changed?”

“No,” Snufkin admitted. He may have gotten used to the weight of them, but they were still as heavy as they’d been then.

“And, uh…it _is_ me, right?” Moomintroll said, and laughed quietly. “I’d be really embarrassed now if it wasn’t.”

“Of course it’s you,” Snufkin replied. He was surprised by how easy it was to say. “I hope you know, though, that I did try to be mature about it. Move on and not let it hurt our friendship but – well, I understand if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Wow,” Moomintroll said. “You’re as dense as Snorkmaiden says you are,”

“Pardon?”

Moomintroll’s paw reached over the rest of the way to grasp Snufkin’s.

“I’m _pleased_,” he said.

“Oh?” he said, curling his fingers between Moomintroll’s, heart rocketing up to his throat.

“Pleased is probably an understatement, honestly,” he admitted, rubbing his thumb over Snufkin’s, “but I know that’s what you prefer. Aloud, anyway.”

Snufkin looked back up, unsurprised to find Moomintroll’s face very close to his.

“Is that so?” he asked.

“You’d get up and leave if I said anything more,” Moomintroll said, laughing against him. “I think I’d like to write it down for you later, though. It only seems fair.”

As is often the case with these kinds of things, neither of them are particularly sure which of them closed the gap between their faces first. It didn’t really matter – they had both been trying to pluck up the courage to do so for long enough, both counted it as a victory.

After so long worrying about it and thinking about it and feeling so _guilty_ about thinking about it, Snufkin was surprised by how easy it felt.

Kissing him, it turned out, was far easier than _thinking_ about kissing him.

“Urgh! Get a _roomMPH_!”

They separated with a start, turning to see Snorkmaiden attempting to clamp her paw around Little My’s mouth, hissing at her. Pappa stood beside them, holding an ice pack over one side of his face. Mamma had turned her back politely on them, taking a great interest in the leaves of the tree above her.

“Sorry boys, didn’t mean to interrupt!” Moominpappa said cheerfully, as though he hadn’t expected them to be doing anything else.

“Pappa!” Moomintroll squeaked. Snufkin had to smother a laugh with his paw. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Moomintroll look so annoyed or be so red in the face.

“Are you done yet dears?” Mamma asked, still looking away (which was somehow more embarrassing than just looking at them). “We can come back later.”

“Please do,” Moomintroll grumbled, only prompting Snufkin to laugh more.

“Hardly! The police are after the whole lot of us,” Pappa said, as though nothing delighted him more. “We must make our escape! No time to lose!”

“Pappa, they’re only after you and I,” Snorkmaiden said, and gave another cautious glance at Snufkin and Moomintroll. “And, um, we should probably just leave Moomintroll and Snufkin out of it. They did only just get together today –“

“What on earth are you talking about?” Pappa said, staring at her as though she’d went quite mad.

“What, did you think they were snogging _platonically_?” Little My sneered.

“No, you mean to tell me they weren’t together already!?”

“Pappa!” Moomintroll shouted.

“Good grief, dear boy, you’re not subtle. I just thought you were too embarrassed to talk about it,” Pappa said reasonably. “I did try to broach the subject. You know, show I hold no ill-will for this sort of thing. Goodness, I even tried to talk to you about this poetry collection you were so smitten with, but you just told me to get out of your room.”

Moomintroll groaned, hiding his face in his paws. Snufkin patted him on the shoulder, strangely un-embarrassed by the whole mess. Perhaps he was just giddy. Or perhaps he had just spent so much time being embarrassed recently that he was quite incapable of feeling any more. Either way, it was oddly freeing.

“Well, we will, er, leave you to it,” Pappa said, “but I was rather hoping Snufkin would know a good spot to lay low.”

“I could probably suggest a few places,” Snufkin said, untangling himself from Moomintroll’s lap. “Although I suspect the police are going to be more preoccupied with everyone’s complaints _against _De Hemulton.”

“All the same, I think we’d better stay out of the way,” Snorkmaiden said, rolling something between her fingers. It looked suspiciously like one of the De Hemulton’s teeth.

“Right then,” he said, Moomintroll’s paw still warm on his back. “If either of you could lend me a sheet of paper, I can quickly draw you a map.”

****

Over the next few weeks, the truth about De Hemulton spilled out faster and faster, as though a dam had finally broken. At first, De Hemulton’s publishing company tried to assert the plagiarism accounts were falsified. As more and more people came forward, all of them describing how De Hemulton had stolen from them or bullied them or done worse than that, the publishers suddenly turned on their heads and decried De Hemulton entirely.

Even Pompington’s University issued a statement, declaring that De Hemulton had only ever attended their institute as an undergraduate, dropping out before graduation. Likewise, no royal family from any country would take credit for De Hemulton’s supposed knighthood.

Last Snufkin heard of it, De Hemulton had moved back in with his parents, in order to prepare for the incoming lawsuits. Father De Hemulton claimed that his son was a ‘mere boy of 34’, and decried to anyone who would listen that there was no need to crucify him over a few silly mistakes. Mother De Hemulton, when finally reached for comment on her private island, only put down her martini and said ‘Oh what has he done _now_?’.

_Thistles_ was re-released as an anonymous collection. To Snufkins’s delight, barely anyone bought it.

“I cannot _believe_ I was so taken with him,” Snorkmaiden said furiously, closing the magazine. She looked across at Snufkin lounging in the grass.

“Snufkin, you have a good sense for when someone’s a cad,” she said, prodding him with her foot. “You will screen all my future suitors for me.”

“I will not,” he said cheerfully. He was very cheerful these days, he found.

“You wouldn’t listen to him if he did, anyway,” Moomintroll said, not even looking up from his sketchbook.

“I’ll screen them for you,” Little My said, grinning. “All you have to do is _introduce_ me.”

“That would be enough to make anyone run away,” Sniff grumbled. Snorkmaiden giggled.

“I rather like that. It’s as though I’m a princess in a castle and Little My is the dragon,” she said, letting Little My clamber into her lap, where she curled up like a little cat. Neither of them seemed to notice the look Moomintroll and Snufkin exchanged at that.

“Yes,” Snorkmaiden said, nodding to herself. “From now on, I think I’d only like a gentleman gallant enough to face Little My.”

“Ha. You’ll be waiting a long time for that,” Moomintroll said.

“Oh shush, you! You can hardly criticise anyone for _waiting_,” she said, flicking a piece of grass at him. “Now, are we going to the literary group tonight or not?”

The fact Moominpappa’s literary group continued, even without someone to like De Hemulton to gossip about, was by far the most surprising turn of events.

After much gently prodding from Snufkin, Mamma admitted that she would like to actually read the book and join in on discussion. On hearing that, Pappa refused to let her as much pour a cup of tea for the group. Without Mamma’s biscuits, gossip, and novelty to tide it over, Snufkin had rather expected the group to dissolve.

Yet it turned out that the group genuinely did like meeting. More than that, everyone was keen to read something new.

It had been Moomintroll’s clever idea to instead ask the Bookseller to host it. It worked fantastically. While the Bookseller was a gracious and welcoming host, if anyone tried to push her for more than was reasonable, she would simply say ‘Nah’ and take a nap right under their noses. And Dorothy – now Harriet – was excellent at picking books that simulated fascinating discussion.

The only problem, if it could be called as much, was that the Bookseller flirted shamelessly with Mamma every time she saw her. This made Mamma turn as pink and giggly as a schoolgirl, but greatly embarrassed everyone else. Despite this, they all agreed a bit of embarrassment wasn’t the worst thing, in the end. It was worth putting up with for everything else.

“Snufkin, you quite liked this week’s book, didn’t you?” Snorkmaiden asked.

“I did,” he said. “But I’m not sure I’m in the mood.”

“Moomintroll?”

“I didn’t really finish reading this one,” he said.

(A lie: Moomintroll had finished it and quite enjoyed it. He would just be much too embarrassed to talk about this particular book in front of his parents.)

“More like the two of you just want an excuse to sneak off together,” Little My said, rolling her eyes.

“We’re allowed to do that,” Snufkin said, grinning at her. “You’d be welcome to come along, but I doubt you’ll enjoy it. We’re just going to go star-gazing and name constellations after each other.”

Snufkin had recently discovered the best way to stop Little My’s teasing and interfering was to be shamelessly disgusting at her.

It worked every time.

“Bleugh! No, _thank _you,” she said. “Anyway, I want to go to this week’s meeting. This was much better than the boring book they picked last time.”

“Sniff?” Snorkmaiden asked.

“If there’s biscuits,” Sniff said. “I didn’t get this one. I thought since it was about thievery it would be exciting, but it was just a lot of two ladies being horrid to each other and reading dirty books.”

“For goodness sakes, Sniff, how is that _all_ you got from it?” Snorkmaiden said, getting to her feet. Little My scrambled onto her shoulders, lounging there like a little orange shawl.

“Well it was too complicated!” Sniff complained.

“It’s not complicated, it’s _complex_.”

“Same thing!”

The three of them walked off, debating the finer points of Maud and Sue’s relationship as they went. For a while, Snufkin and Moomintroll remained in companionable silence, Snufkin half-dozed in the late-afternoon sun, comforted by the scratching of Moomintroll’s pencil against the paper.

After a while, Moomintroll made a grunt of frustration, erasing a section of his sketch. With a stretch, Snufkin stood and walked over, wrapping his arms around Moomintroll’s shoulders. Moomintroll’s tail began to lash against his ankles.

“Hello,” Moomintroll said, as though they hadn’t been laying together in the same meadow all afternoon.

“Hullo,” Snufkin said, resting his chin between Moomintroll’s ears. “How’s the drawing going?”

“Could be better,” he said, squinting at his sketch. His paws were dusty with graphite, and there was even a grey smear on his elbow. Smiling, Snufkin reached down to rub it clean.

“I think it’s coming together rather well,” he said. Snufkin had seen previous thumbnails and sketches, and he thought this one looked ready to be put to easel and painted. “The daffodils look very lifelike.”

“Daffodils are easy, but insects are too difficult to draw!” Moomintroll complained. “They’re complicated and don’t keep still long enough for you to get a good look at them.”

“I will speak to insects _personally_ and make sure they do something about that.”

“_And_ the composition’s off,” Moomintroll said, looking at the drawing as though it had done something to upset him.

“It isn’t. It’s very fine indeed.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I would never do anything of the sort,” Snufkin said, nuzzling the top of his head. Moomintroll snorted.

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” he said, rubbing Snufkin’s forearm. “What about you? You were writing last night, weren’t you?”

“You were awake?”

“Only because you write as though the paper just said something rude about Mamma,” Moomintroll said, and tilted his head back to look up at him, ears curling against the fabric of Snufkin’s coat. “Come on then. Anything you’re willing to share?”

“One did come out nicely,” Snufkin admitted. “It’s still rough, though.”

“I’d love to hear it,” he said.

“Well, how’s this. I’ll read it if you stop thumbnailing and start painting. It’s driving me mad.”

“Deal,” Moomintroll said, setting his sketchbook down. With a final nuzzle between his ears, Snufkin unwrapped his arms from around Moomintroll and sat next to him in the grass. He dug his newest notebook out from one of the pockets of his coat, flipping to the poem he’d been working on.

With still a little nervousness, Snufkin began to read, his voice low and steady. Moomintroll settled comfortably onto his stomach and listened, feeling thoroughly spoiled.

As for the poem itself?

Well, that is not for us to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, that's a wrap! Thank you for playing with me in this space. This was really fun to write. I also crammed way more references to books in this than I expected to. See how many you spot!
> 
> My tumblr is [@clefairytea](http://clefairytea.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk Moomins or writing.


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